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POPULAR NOVELS 


BY 


MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 


Tempest Ain> Sitnshinb. Bareness and DATuctav. 


Bngusf Orphans. 
Homestead on Hillside. 
'Lena Rivers. 

Meadow Brook. 

Bora Deane. 

CSousiN Maude. 

Marian Grbv. 

Edith Ltle. 

Daist Thornton. 
Chateau d'Or. 


Hugh Worthington. 
Cameron Pride. 

Rose Mather. 

Etheltn’s Mistake. 
Milbank. 

Edna Browning. 

West Lawn. 

Mildred. 

Forrest House. 

Madeline. 

Christmas Stories. 
Gretchen. 

Dr. Hathern's OAUGHiEflB. 


§ UEENIE HeTHERTON. 

ESSIE'S Fortune. 
Marguerite. ' 


Mrs.Hallam's Companion. Paul Ralston. 
The Tracy Diamonds. {New.) 


“Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinatiDg 
writer. Her books are always entertaining, and sbe 
has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
and affections of her readers, and of hold* 
ing their attention to her pages with 
deep and absorbing interest.’* 


Haads<«nely hound in cloth. Pr^ $1.00 each, 
and sent/m by mail on rece4>t of price. 


G. W. Dill? j;igham Co., PublisherSy 



NEW YORK, 


DOCTOR ANTONIO; 

ft ^ fttttls* 


-'J 

By RUFFINI. 

Ctatt*? of ** S^nnM iSenoni/’ « Beat SxptttcKct,** m$- 



NEW YORK: 

{?• W, Dillingham Co., Publishievs. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
GEO. W. CARLETON, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
District of New York. 


Contents. 



— QREAI^ AND SMA1X| 

♦ 

T 


a 




7 

II. — THE OSTERIA, . , 

• 

• 

• 

• 


• 

0 

84 

ni. — SIR JOHN DAVEN5*, , 

• 

• 


• 


• 

• 

60 

'T. — SKIRMISHES, . ♦ 

• 

» 


V 


• 

• 

60 

V. — A PITCHED BATTLE, , 

• 

• 

• 



• 

• 

78 

?I. — LITTLE OCCUPATIOH8, o 

• 

* 

• 



• 

• 

100 

TII. — BITS OF INFORMATIOM, . 

> 

* 





0 

H 

7III. SPEBANJia. . , 

r 

« 

• 

0 



• 

124 

IX. — Lucy’s scheme, , 

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F 

• 


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149 

X. — IN THE BALCONY • * 

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• 



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« 

161 

XI. — THE 15th of mat, 1840* 

* 

• 

> 

0 


0 


180 

III. IN THE GARDEN, . 

* 

> 

• 

9 


• 

* 

196 

nil. IN THE BOAT, . , 

• 


• 

% 


0 

• 

208 

IIV. SICILY, . . 

• 

• 

• 



9 

• 

219 

XT. — PROGRESS TO THE SANCTUARY, 

• 


e 


0 

• 

241 

XVI. — NEW CHARACTERS AND INCIDENT8, 

• 

A 


• 

0 

262 

XTII. — THE THEATRE, . • 

• 



f* 


• 

• 

281 

mil. — ANTONIO PLEDGES HIMSELF, 







• 

294 

XIX. — THE IDYL AT A CLOSE, , 








804 

XI. — ABSENCE, 








822 

XXI. — EIGHT YEARS AFTER, . 

• 


• 

• 

• 

• 

< 

829 

aYLES, • - • 

• 



• 

0 

• 

• 

860 

rs.111. — ^THB 16th of mat, 1848. 

• 


• 

C 

• 

• 

• 

8S8 

IXIi*. — TIDINGS, 








882 

xxv.~ yj£ vicTia, . 




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894 

cm. — ccs-riNUATiaai, 

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408 

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KXTii. — iSOHlAf 


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DOCTOR ANTONIO 


Chapter I. 

Great and Small. 

Ok a fine sunny afternoon of early April, in the year 1840, an 
elegant travelling carriage was rattling, at the full speed of four 
post-horses, over the road, famous among tourists as the Cornice 
Road, and which runs along the western Riviera of Genoa, from 
that city to Nice. 

Few of the public highways of Europe are more favored than 
this — ^few, at any rate, combine in themselves three such elements 
of natural beauty as the Mediterranean on one side, the Appe- 
nines on the other, and overhead the splendors of an Italian sky. 
The industry of man has done what it could, if not to vie with, 
at least not to disparage Nature. Numerous towns and villages, 
some gracefully seated on the shore, bathing their feet in the 
silvery wave , some stretching up the mountain sides like a flock 
of sheep, or thrown picturesquely astride a lofty ridge, with here 
and there a solitary sanctuary perched high on a sea-washed cUif, 
or half lost in a forest of verdure at the head of some glcu ; 
marble palaces and painted villas emerging from sunny vio» 

T 


8 


Doctor Antonio 


yards, gaily flowering gardens, or groves of orange and lemon 
trees ; myriads of white casini with green jalonsies scattered all 
over hills, once sterile, but now their scanty soil propped up by 
terrace shelving above terrace, clothed to the top with olive- 
trees — all and everything, in short, of man^s handiwork, beto- 
kens the activity and ingenuity of a tasteful and richly-endowed 
race. 

The road, in its obedience to the capricious indentations of 
the coast, is irregular and serpent-like ; at one time on a level 
with the sea, it passes between hedges of tamarisk, aloes, and 
oleander, at another winds up some steep mountain side, through 
dark pine forests, rising to such a height, that the eye recoils 
terrified from looking into the abyss below ; here it disappears 
into galleries cut in the living rock, there comes out upon a wide 
expanse of earth, sky, and water : now turns inland, with a 
seeming determination to force a passage across the mountain, 
anon shoots abruptly in an opposite dii’ection, as if bent upon 
rcushing headlong into the sea. The variety of prospect resulting 
from this continual shifting of the point of view is as endless as 
that offered by the everchanging combinations of a kaleidoscope. 
Could we but give this sketch a little of the coloring — real 
coloring, of the country, what a picture we should make of it I 
But we cannot. It is past the power of words to shadow out 
the brilliant transparency of this atmosphere, the tender azure 
of this sky, the deep blue of this sea, the soft gradations of 
tone tinting these wavy mountains, as they lap one over the 
other. The palette of a Stanfield, or a D’Azeglio, would 
scarcely be equal to the task. 

Amid such scenery the carriage just introduced to the reader^s 
notice rolled briskly on. It was as fine a piece of workmanship 
as ever issued from the hands of a first-rate London coach-maker, 
light, elegant; well-balanced, capacious, comfortable-looking, and 
wanting in none of the appendages that bespeak rank and wealth, 


Great and Small 


from the (scarcely visible on the dark, well-varnished panels) 
miniature coat of arms, with numerous quarterings, sunnoimted 
by the bloody hand, that fixed the position held by the travel 
lers, on the social ladder of Great Britain, to the smart lady’s- 
maid and somewhat portly man out of livery, who showed their 
appreciation of the fine nature around, by slumbering placidly 
in the rumble. 

The two occupants of the inside, an elderly gentleman and a 
young lady, evidently father and daughter, seemed, if one might 
judge from appearances, as insensible as their servants to the 
various beauties soliciting their admiration. White sails, gliding, 
like huge swans, over the heaving waves ; fruit trees, so laden 
with blossoms as to look less like trees than overgrown nosegays; 
fields yellow with daffodil, blue with anemone, white with long- 
stemmed Star of Bethlehem, hoary rocks, armed at every crevice 
with the lance-like leaves of gigantic aloes, passed in rapid 
succession by our travellers, equafly unnoticed or disregarded. 

Half buried in a heap of cushions, pillows, and shawls, the 
young lady lay at full length, trying hard to sleep ; but though 
her cheek was pale with fatigue, and a blue circle round her eyes 
spoke sadly of want of rest, sleep refused to come, as her inces- 
sant change of position, her jerks and moans of childish impa- 
tience, clearly showed to her companion. A fair specimen she 
was of a type of beauty, not rarely met with in England, espe- 
cially among the higher classes — a type uniting characteristics 
that would seem incompatible, a stamp of distinction, akin -tc 
haughtiness, and an almost ideal suavity of outline. The veil of 
langour spread over her person, gave her loveliness a })eculiai 
charm, one irresistibly touching. Nature, who had made this 
girl so beautiful, seemed to have written on her every feature, 
“ fragile.” The thin blue veins marbling her temples, the soft 
azure of her eye, the maiden-blush clearness of the skin, were 
but too suggestive of the transitory bloom and beauty of some 

1 * 


10 


Doctor Antonio 


delicate flower. The hair, locks of which strayed here and then 
out of their elegant prison of embroidered gauze, had that rich 
golden hue with which the Italian painters adorn the heads of 
cherubs. Altogether, hers was as graceful and fairy-like a form 
as ever human eye rested on, such as an angel would choose if 
condemned to assume a mortal shape, just corporeal enough to 
attest humanity, yet sufficiently transparent to let the celestial 
•rigin shine through. 

Sir John Davenne — for such was the name of the elderly gen- 
tleman by the side of this fair creature — sat lost in a brown 
study, one, seemingly, of no pleasant nature, and from which 
nothing had power to rouse him, but the sound, however stifled, 
of a short, dry cough, which awakened all the solicitude of an 
affectionate parent. He would then turn to his young compa- 
nion, ask, in a whisper full of tenderness, if she felt worse, mutter 
some words of endearment or cheering, and shake up or smooth 
the pillows. 

The appearance of the father was, at first sight, prepossessing 
also in its way. The fresh complexion, almost feminine in its 
softness ; the clear blue eye, the lofty brow, scarcely shaded by 
two scanty tufts of glossy grey hair, carefully brushed forward j 
the tall, upright figure, that gave little evidence of the fifty-six 
or fifty-seven summers its possessor had numbered, all were cal- 
culated to produce an agreeable impression. A nearer inspect- 
tion, a more prolonged gaze, revealed blots on this polished 
surface. The forehead, pure in color and smooth as marble, was 
high but narrow, and sloping backwards, like the foreheads of 
George the Third and Charles the Tenth, an hereditary feature 
in the family from which this gentleman descended, and that 
kept the promise it gave, of an obstinacy which would not have 
discredited the crowned heads it has been likened to. The light- 
blue eye was too prominent and round, the nostrils of the thin 
arched nose were pinched ; the small, finely-cut lips had a pre» 


Great and Small 


11 


rare upwards, which, with the acute angle of the nostril, indi 
cated an indulged habit of contemptuous pride. The genera 
expression of this gentleman’s countenance seemed to say, that 
the clay that other men were made of “ did come between the 
wind and his nobility.” 

An uninterrupted series of explosions from the postilion’s 
whip, and the stony pavement over which the carriage now 
clatters, loudly announce its having entered a town. A stento- 
rian “ ohe I” from the Automedon of the aristocratic vehicle, 
gives warning to the unseen occupant of a shabby two-wheeled 
cakssino, standing in front of the post-house, to make room for 
its betters. Be it the effect of the bloody hand, that makes 
itself felt even at a distance, or be it simply that the owner of 
the gig had pressing business of his own, certain it is that the 
word of command was scarcely uttered before obeyed, and the 
dusty cakssino started away at the full speed of its shaggy 
horse, leaving its ponderous competitor undisputed master of 
the field. 

The lady’s-maid and the man-servant get down from the 
rumble, and wait obsequiously at the carriage doors. 'Hie 
invalid asks for a glass of water. The water is obtained, and 
Sir John pours into it some drops from a phial, and holds it to 
the lips of the suffering girl. In the meantime, two professional 
beggars, a man and woman, in pictorial rags, begin a long litany 
of miseries, ending with an ever-repeated burden that the 
Madonna Santissima e tutti i Santi dd Paradiso will repay any 
charity tenfold to the luoni lernfattori. Miss Davenne looks for 
her purse, and puts some money into the woman’s hand, who 
happens to be on her side of the carriage. Sir John throwB 
some silver on the ground for the old man. Certainly, both 
father and daughter are actuated by an identically meritorious 
feeling, but how unlike is the manner in which it is expressed I 
Even the beggars feel the difference — ^ he old woman drops a 


12 


Doctor Antonio. 


courtesy and a smile, while the old man picks up the money, and 
turns away sullenly. 

What is the name of this place ?” asked Miss Davenne. 

San Remo,” is the answer. Sir J ohn Davenne does not 
approve of the name ; at least one may argue as much from his 
pursed-up lips as he hears it. He looks up the street and down 
the street, and finally draws in his head. Had Sir John 
Davenne kept a note-book, he would probably have made an 
entry of this sort : “ San Remo, a queer-looking place, narrow 
ill-paved streets, high, irregular houses, ragged people, swarms 
of beggars,” and so forth, for a whole page. Fortunately 
for the public reputation of San Remo, Sir John kept no 
note-book. 

By this time four horses wert. already put to the carriage, but 
the length of the next stage, and the hilly character of the road, 
required, according to the postmaster, an extra horse. This 
fifth horse, however, which was to be placed tandem-fashion,, 
manifested a most determined disinclination for the post assigned 
him ; kicking and plunging in fair alternation, he at last broke 
loose, and set off full gallop down the narrow street, pursued by 
all the men and boys apparently in the town, by whose combined 
efforts, after a keen chase, he was captured at last, triumphantly 
brought back, and fastened in front of the other four. The 
postilion jerked himself into his heavy saddle, waved his long 
whip round his head, first to the right, and then to the left, a 
report like a pistol following each manoeuvre, and the caiTiage 
was at length again set in motion, amid a perfect uproar of 
unintelligible vociferations. 

In a short time it came in sight of the gig first noticed at Sau 
Remo, and now toiling up a long steep hill ; a curious specimen, 
to be sure, of the conveyances of the country, — such a weather 
beaten, discolored, squeezed-in, almost shapeless thing, — it was a 
**"«nier how it held together or remained on its wheels., Tht 


Great and Small 


13 


distance between the two carriages diminished Yery perceptibly 
the four wheels gaining on the two, much in the proportion of a 
big steamer in stern chase of a small boat. Now the thick 
layers of dust on the road deadened the sound of wheels and 
horses’ feet, and made the usual warnings with the whip more 
necessary than ever. Still the postilion gave no sign of life. 
Most likely he took it for granted that the driver of the gig 
must be aware of the coming up of his magnificent neighbor, and 
would take proper care of himself, or maybe he was so engrossed 
by the mending of his lash as to forget his duty j howev^ it 
was, it 30 turned out, that the English equipage, just as it 
reached the verge of the eminence, dashed unexpectedly at full 
speed past the unprepared humble vehicle. The shaggy little 
horse, frightened out of its wits, made such a sudden bolt to the 
left, that had the hand holding the reins been a whit less strong 
and experienced, gig, horse, and driver must have gone down 
into the sea. 

The volley of expletives with which the single gentleman of 
the gig saluted the sudden advent of his fellow-travellers (and, 
from the angry tone in which they were uttered, there was no 
mistaking them for blessings), sufficiently testified his resentment 
of the postilion’s unceremonious proceeding. Fortunately, Miss 
Davenne, though a tolerably good Italian scholar, did not under- 
stand the pa,tois of the Riviera, otherwise she would have had an 
odd and not particularly agreeable illustration of passionate local 
eloquence. 

If the unexpected encounter had shaken the shaggy pony and 
his master out of their equanimity, the famous extra horse of Sir 
John’s carriage proved not a bit more stoical. Perhaps the 
alarm was contagious, or perhaps the creature had a special 
antipathy to the process of going down hill, which now began 
Whatever was the cause, from the moment of passing the 
f£tkssinOy his progress became a chance medley of galloping. 


14 


Doctor Antonio. 


plunging, and rearing. Sir John, who, with his head out of tlu 
window, was following with momently increasing anxiety the 
strange evolutions of the beast, would have at once called to the 
postilion, but from the double fear of startling his daughter out 
of the half slumber into which she seemed to have dropped aftei 
leaving San Remo, and of too suddenly checking the horses in 
full career. But the carriage having reached the bottom of the 
hill, which was not a long one, and Miss Davenne being awake 
by this time, Sir John ordered the postilion to stop, and in the 
same breath desired John, the companion of the lady’s maid in 
the rumble, to get down and see what was the matter John got 
down ; and there ensued a parley between the valet and the 
post-boy, unlikely to lead to any satisfactory result, seeing that 
the postilion did not understand one syllable of John’s questions 
or directions, expressed in the most imperfect of Italian, nor did 
John comprehend one syllable of the postilion’s explanations, 
given in the patois of the Riviera. Each party repeated his own 
words over and over again, without conveying any idea to the 
other ; English John insisting on the restive horse being put into 
the traces, and one of the quiet hind horses taking his place ; 
while the postilion, with native fluency, persisted in asseverating 
that there was no danger, that the plunging and rearing of 
the leader was caused by the knocking of the splinter bar 
against his legs, and that he could put that to rights in no 
time. 

At last the energetic pantomime of the Italian laJ, for th« 
postilion was not above twenty, gave John a glimpse of his 
interlocutor’s meaning. The fact pointed out by the youth was 
80 evideutly one, though perhaps not the sole cause of the horse’s 
restlessness, that J ohn, glad to be spared any more arguing to 
BO little purpose, and also at some cost to his dignity, readily 
accepted expiant^tion ; and having reported to his master 
that the..v ♦vas only 9 ^rifle wrong with the harness, which would 


Great and Small. 


15 


be remedied directly, climbed back gravely to his comfortable 
seat t)y Miss Hutchins. 

The postilion had just begun to try shortening the chains 
of the bar, so that it should not strike against the horse, 
whistling loudly the while, when the gig, which had been left 
behind, came up and stopped by his side, without his having 
heard or seen it. “ Hallo, Prospero I” said a voice, which made 
the young man simultaneously start, look up, and take off his hat 
with some precipitation, “ what the devil is the matter with you 
to-day? Do you know, you stupid boy, that you have been 
within an ace of pitching me into the sea ?” 

“ Pitching Vossignoria into the sea I” exclaimed Prospero, 
with an odd mixture of anger and distress in his voice. “ Vossig- 
noria knows I would rather be drowned myself a hundred times. 
IBut this is not the Signor’s cahssino, and how could I guess the 
/Signor was in it ?” 

“ And what had that to do with the matter ?” retorted the 
/•oice of the so addressed “ Signor” angrily. “ What does it 
signify whether it was I or the Great Khan of Tartary ? How 
,lare you, sir, play with the life of any one ? It is your business 
imd duty to take care that the horses you drive be not the death 
of peaceable citizens. Do you hear ?” 

Prospero, now thoroughly humbled, said he was very sorry, 
'd would do his best that the like should not happen again. 

'‘Very well; but what horse is that you have got there?” 
continued the voice ; and a hand stretched forth from under the 
hood of the calessino pointed to the extra horse. 

“ It is a new one. Signor ; it came to the stables only yester 
day. He’s a fidgety beast.” 

“ Fidgety you call him. Bagatella ! he’s as vicious an animal 
as I ever saw, and one your master ought not to put to any 
carriage with Christians inside. I have been watching your 
fidgety beast for the last quarter of an hour. Take good 


16 


Doctor Antonio. 


advice while it is yet time, Prospero ; instead of fastening that 
buckle, undo it, and let the horse find its own way back to San 
Remo.” 

Had Prospero been a man of fifty, with an established charac- 
ter as a post-boy, the probabilities are that he might have 
accepted of good advice ; but he was a mere lad, as we have 
said, full of courage and confidence in the strength of his own 
arms, and with an ardent desire to be known as a first-rate whip 
on the road. Now, to send back a horse, under the circum- 
stances, was tantamount to the confession of his own inability to 
manage him — a confession that Prosperous self-love and ambition 
alike forbade. Postilions have their point of honour as well as 
the people they drive. 

So Prospero replied, with some cunning, “ Leave him on the 
road, Signor, you mean, for how would he ever find his way back, 
when we got him only yesterday, and that from inland ? A 
pretty scrape I would be in with master, if I were to turn the 
horse loose here I But there is no danger,” continued Prospero, 
recovering his good humor and politeness, “ any beast would kick 
if he had a great piece of wood flapping against his legs every 
step he took. See here. Signor, if I let down the ropes a bit, 
and shorten up the chain, so as to keep the bar pretty stiff, he’ll 
go as quiet as a lamb.” 

** Well, you ought to know best,” answered the voice j “ at all 
events, keep a sharp look out on him, and try next time you 
come up with me, not to upset me, or give me a cold bath, if you 
can help it.” 

These last words were said good-humoredly ; the postilion 
showed all his white teeth in the merry laugh with which he 
received the recommendation, and made a low bow as the gig 
drove off. 

This dialogue, of course not understood by the English travel- 
lers, lasted scarcely two minutes; the manner of speaking of both 


Great and Small. 


1 % 


hiterlocutors being rapid and incisive. The voice of tne invisible 
one was remarkable for its richness of tone, and natural manage- 
ment of what it may be allowable to call the chiaroscuro of speech 
When we say invisible, we mean with respect only to those within 
the carriage, who, the two vehicles standing one before the other 
fn nearly the same line, could see nothing of the person in 
the hooded gig, but the hand with which he had pointed to the 
horse. 

The lengthening of the ropes and the shortening of the chains 
being at last accomplished, it was not long before the great 
English carriage once more passed the democratic-looking 
mkssmo, but this time at a very gentle pace, and not till after 
every sort of whistle, cry, or call a throat could give forth, and 
every possible signal a whip is capable of, had been rung through 
the air by the repentant Prospero. Sir J ohn Davenne gave a 
tigh of relief as they passed. Odd enough, the Baronet had con- 
descended to take a personal dislike to the calessino, and he hoped 
that he had seen it now for the last time. Ah I Sir John 
Davenne, there is a legend or motto older than even the Crusades, 
“ L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” The shy horse was behaving 
well for the time being. Miss Davenne was now fairly asleep, so 
all his causes for uneasiness or annoyance being at once removed, 
Sir John relapsed into his former reverie, which, in another few 
minutes, and in spite of one or two manful efforts, became a most 
flagrant doze. 

A little after Sir John had closed his eyes, the road, which 
for some time had been going up hill, began to descend. For a 
good mile it ran sloping zig-zag round a barren reddish cliff that 
jutted into the sea, till, at a sharp turning to the right, there 
opened to the view the last but most rapid part of the declivity, 
then a run of no more than two hundred paces on a level with 
the sea. Here the road began to rise again, and soon became 
bifurcated ; the lesser branch climbing straight up a little pro 


18 


Doctor Antonio. 


moutory, that shut in the horizon to the west — a verdant smiling 
bit of land, with a steeple, and here and there housetops shining 
in the sun — the main branch skirting the rocky base to the left. 

, Now Prospero, whose sense of responsibility had been put on 
the qut mvt by the warning of the occupant of the gig, ven- 
ttired down the slope with all possible care, and with an eye to 
the ticklish leader. But not all his vigilance or skill were suffi- 
cient to ward off a result inevitable under the circumstances, 
namely, that the strain kept on the traces of the front horse in 
ascendhig, being necessarily slackened in the descent, nay, at 
times entirely suspended, the bar by which the animal was fas- 
tened to the pole once more began to hit against his hind quar 
ters. An occasional lash out of his heels gave warning of 
coming danger. Matters grew worse, as the declivity, gentle at 
first, just about the turning before mentioned became more 
abrupt, and the inconvenience arising from the splinter bar 
increased in direct ratio to the accelerated motion of the vehicle. 
The rage and terror of the goaded animal augmented with every 
step, while the efforts of the alarmed driver to quiet him, only 
served to frighten the other four. Feeling that the whole five 
were getting beyond his control, Prospero suddenly loosened the 
reins, and with a clack of his tongue launched them at full gallop, 
keeping a sharp look out on the road, so as to avoid every thing 
in the shape of an impediment, which, however small, at the 
fearful rate the carriage was going, must have endangered its 
equilibrium. He trusted, of course, to being able to pull in the 
horses so soon as they should feel the rise of the hill before 
them. 

It was, indeed, the only chance of safety left, and in another 
minute the attempt would have succeeded, but Sir John all at 
once awoke. The real state of things had influenced his sleep, 
for he had been dreaming all this time of horses running away^ 
and in a very natural bewilderment on first waking, he put hig 


Great and Small. 


19 


Qead out of the window, roaring to the postilion to stop. The 
noise awakenened Miss Davenne, who, in her turn, gieatl} 
alarmed, began to scream. The call and the screams made the 
unlucky Prospero turn his head a little, and in so doing he lost 
Bight of the road for a second ; — even a second was too much at 
this critical conjuncture. One of the hind wheels jerked over a 
stone, the carriage gave a bound as if it were about to take 
wing, oscillated for a moment on the edge of the road, then tum- 
bled over, horses and all. Bad as the case was, it might have 
been worse. The road was only a few feet above the shore, and, 
luckily, at that spot there was a thick bed of sand, which soft- 
ened the fall. It was well that Sir John had not been sooner 
roused from his nap, or the upset might have proved too much 
even for a man of his consequence. 

While Miss Hutchins, all in a flutter of spirits and garments, 
with her sudden’ flight through the air, picks herself up as fast 
as she can, astonished to find she is all in one piece — while John, 
as grim and dignified* as ever, in spite of a very ugly somerset, 
and a long cut across the nose, which is bleeding profusely, pulls 
Sir John, who happens to be uppermost, and seems to have 
sustained no injury, through one of the windows — while all three 
uniting their efforts, try to extricate from the fallen carriage 
Miss Bavenne^s inanimate form — while Prospero, from the very 
excess of despair, stares vacantly first at one and then the other, 
leaving his horses to kick aud struggle at their pleasure, looking 
as though he had fallen from the clouds instead of from off the 
road, the hated gig might have been seen, like a thunderbolt on 
wheels, rushing fiiriously down the hill. Has the shaggy little 
horse run away also, or does the person driving belong to that 
rare order of beings, upon whom the prospect of giving aid to 
fellow-creatures in distress, acts like an intoxicating draught, 
rendering them insensible to personal danger ? We shall see 
by-and-by. 


20 


Doctor Antonio. 


'• Anybody hurt ? any harm done cried the gent email of 
the gig, as he drew up in front of where the accident had hap 
pened “ Can I be of any use ? I am a medical man.” At the 
iame time there got out of the cakssino, and made for the group 
Btanding round Miss Davenne, a tall, dark, black-bearded man, 
wearing a broad-brimmed conical hat — in short, just such a 
figure, as met by Sir John under any other circumstances, would 
have made him cock the two pistols he had invariably carried 
about him since travelling in the classical land of banditti. As 
it was, the English baronet, who did not understand one word 
of the stranger’s Italian, contented himself with staring at the 
new-comer half in amazement, half in displeasure, as much as to 
say. To what species does this creature belong ? Nothing 
daunted by this stare, the stranger pushed past Sir John, knelt 
down by the side of the prostrate girl, and was trying to feel 
her pulse, when Sir John, not catching his meaning, made a dart 
forward, as if to thrust him away from his daughter. 

Are you mad ?” bawled the stranger, in Italian ; then in 
French, “ Je suis m^decin, vous dis-je,” adding rapidly this time 
in good plain English, as if in the baronet’s face he had seen the 
flag of Great Britain hoisted, “ Did you not hear me say that I 
was a physician ?” The sound of his native tongue at length 
conveys to Sir John’s comprehension a clear and distinct concep 
tion, and a ray of consolation falls on his spirit. For, to have a 
doctor at hand in such a strait, and a doctor who speaks 
English, however his appearance may jar with all the English- 
man’s preconceived notions of medical gentlemen. Sir John allows 
to himself is something. 

As if what he had said called for no further remark or 
question, the doctor proceeded to feel the lady’s pulse, took 
off her bonnet, and gently examined her head. No wound 
there, not even a bruise. The chest, too, was safe, for, though 
faint, her breathing was regular ; “ unless there be concussion 


Great and SmalL 


21 


i>f the brain,” said the doctor to himself. Just as he shook his 
head at this unpleasant conjecture, his eyes met those of Sir 
John Davenne. The keen anxiety of that countenance could not 
for a moment be mistaken. “You need not be uneasy abou 
your daughter,” said the doctor, answering the unspoken ques« 
tion, and taking the relationship for granted, “ this is a mere 
fainting fit, the young lady will soon recover ;” and while still 
speaking, he pulled a case out of his coat pocket, from which he 
took a pair of large scissors. These he thrust into Miss Hut- 
chins’ trembling hands, saying, “You must manage to undo your 
lady’s dress, while I run down to the sea for some water. Cut 
everything, mind, without moving her.” 

Waiting for no reply, the tall gentleman strides away, fills his 
hat with water, and returns in the twinkhng of an eye. All his 
movements are quick but sedate, and though visibly excited, all 
he does and says, he does and says in a resolute, quiet, earnest 
way of his Own, without hurry or fuss. As he comes back, the 
struggling horses and the petrified Prospero attract his atten- 
tion, and he calls out in a voice that enforces immediate obe- 
dience, “ Cut the ropes of these horses, do you hear ? and do it 
at once,” and keeps his eye on the postilion till he sees him 
twist his head round like Harlequin’s pantomime of distress, 
and begin to fumble in one of his jacket pockets for a 
knife. 

The doctor sprinkled Miss Havenne’s face ard throat freely 
with water, laid a wet handkerchief across her forehead, while 
Hutchins held smelling-salts to her nose, and bathed her hands 
with Eau-de-Cologne. But in defiance of all efforts she con- 
tinued insensible. It was becoming clear to a medical eye, that 
some more energetic remedies might be necessary to restore 
animation. The doctor again drew out his case of instruments, 
and, to Sir John’s great consternation, set about choosing a 
ancet. Happily, at this moment, Miss Davenne half opened her 


22 


Doctor Antonio. 


eyes, and faltered out “Papa." Sir John stooped fondly o?cf 
her, “ What is it, my darling ?" 

“ Oh, my foot 1 such a dreadful pain in my foot I” 

“ Which foot ?" asked the Italian. 

She looked up at him in some amazement, then pointing to 
ei nght foot, said, “This one.” The words were no sooner 
uttered than the doctor seized his great scissors, and in a second 
had skillfully cut open the elegant boot and fine stocking, laying 
bare a little alabaster foot, just fit for a Cinderella^s slipper, but 
shockingly sprained. Nor was this all. The leg was broken 
just above the ankle. This, with rapid medical intuition, he 
rather guessed than saw, and by a motion quick as thought, he 
dropped a shawl over the wounded limb, so as to hide it from 
both father and daughter, saying, in a calm tone, “ Ah, a 
sprained ankle I a rather painful, but not a serious thing. I 
must have all the handkerchiefs you can give me,” he added, 
looking round. Handkerchiefs of all sizes and qualities came 
forth from the pockets of the bystanders. “ Enough, enough,” 
said he, smiling, as he looked at the unexpected shower. 
“ These will answer in the meantime for a temporary bandage, 
which will alleviate the pain the young lady feels.” He bound 
up the poor foot carefully, then said, “Now, madam, let me 
impress upon you the importance of remaining as quiet as 
possible. I must leave you for a little while to fetch what is 
necessary to enable me to dress your foot properly, which must 
be done before yi'U can be removed from your present uncon> 
fortable positioa. Do you promise me not to stir while I am 
gone ?” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Davenne, with a feeble effort to smile her 
thanks. 

The doctor sprung lightly to his feet, and was hastening away 
when suddenly, turning to John, who was standing near him 
with a look of deep commiseration, almost comical to see on 


Great and Small 


23 


hL 'ck and blue face, be said, “ Suppose you were to hold an 
umlvuba over the lady’s head, the sun is full upon hex f then 
contsn? ng his way, he jumped into his gig, and pushed thi 

ihagg} lorse to a gallop. 


n 


Doctor Antomch. 


Chapter II. 

The Osteria. 

“ So that gentleman is a doctor, papa,” said Lucy, this being 
tl t simple Christian name given to the daughter of the haughty 
baronet. 

“At least he gives himself out as one, my dear,” said Sir 
Jo‘m. 

“How very lucky for me 1” remarked the young lady. 

“ Very,” replied Sir John, “ though he is an odd-looking figure 
for a physician.” 

“Yes, in England we should think so,” answered Lucy ; 
“ but abroad, you know, people are less particular about dress, 
and there is something gentleman-like about him after all. Did 
you observe his hands, papa? I am sure they are like a 
gentleman^s.” 

“May be so, may be so,” said Sir John, doubtingly. 

“ I wonder whether he is English, papa ; he speaks very good 
English.” 

“Yes, but there^s a strong emack of the foreigner in his 
accent,” returned her father. 

Lucy was silent, and leaning her head on her hand, seemed 
little disposed to continue the dialogue. Sir John thus left to 
himself, all at once remembered the postilion, and as he remem- 
bered, all the anger forgotten in his anxiety for Lucy, returned^ 


The Osteria. 


25 


rose to fury and overflowed his lips. He Ijegan to abuse the 
unlucky lad in very Doric English, interspersed now and then 
with a word intended for Italian. “ Look at the cold-blooded 
villain,” stormed *Sir John, pointing to Prospero, who, as he 
stood mechanically holding the bridles of the horses, and staring 
vacantly, did look as if the storm of words rattling about his 
ears for the last five minutes did not concern him ; but this 
apathy was not indifference nor callousness, nor cold-bloodedness; 
on the contrary, it was the stouiness of despair. This immobility 
irritating Sir John more and more every instant, brought him at 
last to swear, that, since he could not remain on the spot long 
enough to prosecute the rascal for deliberate intent to murder, 
he would write to the postmaster and have the lad dismissed. 
The post-boy never winced. No, he would do better — he would 
apply to the English Envoy at Turin: he. Sir John Davenne, was 
determined to make an example of the wretch for the benefit of 
future travellers and post-boys. Still Prospero stood as unmoved 
as if part of the rook by his side. He, Sir John Davenne, would 
never rest, no, never, till the good-for-nothing Italian ruffian had 
been summarily punished, though he should have recourse to the 
King of Sardinia himself. The doomed Prospero heard the 
sound of the BaronePs angry voice, but without its ever disturb- 
ing his agreeable contemplation of the postmaster’s fury in posse, 
and the dread in esse, of having done some mortal injury to the 
bella SigTwrina, This outburst of ire had one use, at least, it 
was a diversion of its kind, which helped Sir John to wait for 
the Italian doctor’s promised return with more patience than he 
would otherwise have done. 

Miss Davenne felt thankful when she saw the poor old gig 
once more. “ Now, then,” said the doctor’s cheerful voice, “ we 
must all make ourselves useful. Ahl this umbrella is in my way 
here ; will you have the goodness, sir,” turning to Sir John, 
hold it yourself, and screen your daughter from the suo ? 

2 


Doctor Antonio. 


2 « 

Excuse me> but you will do it more eflfectualij if yon sit 
down by her thus,” and he placed Sir John at his daughter** 
head. 

“ You, too,” he continued, addressing the serrants, will seat 
yourselves at the young lady*s feet, and attend closely to what I 
say to you. My place is here in the middle and he knelt 
down on one knee with his back turned to Sir John and the 
patient, so as to entirely preclude their seeing anything of what 
wa-s going to pass. 

** I shall not keep you long, nor hurt you much,” he added, 
turning his head for an instant towards Miss Davenne. So 
saying, he undid the handkerchiefs, and bade Hutchins and John 
support the foot. 

Lucy remained as quiet and passive in his hands, with even a 
look of faith in him shining in her eyes, as if, instead of chance 
having brought them together on a high road in Italy, he had 
been her medical attendant since her infancy. Indeed, all pre- 
sent, even Sir John, seemed under the spell of the combination 
of simplicity and force that breathed in the man. 

A pull — a crackling as if of bones clasping together — a sup- 
pressed groan. “ There, it is over 1” cried the doctor, shaking 
off, with a, jerk of his head, the large drops of perspiration 
breaking over his broad forehead. “You feel less pain already, 
do you ?” he asked, bending towards Lucy. Poor girl, she was 
so bewildered she could scarcely tell how she felt. The foot 
had to be bound up, an operation which required great care, 
and took some time. At last it was finished. Two thin flat 
pieces of something which were among the rollers the doctor had 
fetched (two slips of wood, we suspect, wrapped up in linen 
beforehand to conceal their real nature from the bystanders), 
were fastened on each side of the foot, over the bandage, so as 
to secure it and keep all in its place, and there was an end 
of it 


The Osteria. 


27 


By this time, four strong sunburnt peasant women had brought 
A Tery primitive kind of litter with mattresses on it, and were 
waiting at a little distance from the principal group. 

“ Bring one of the mattresses here,” cried the doctor, directing 
them to place it close to Miss Davenne^s side. He then opened 
a sheet, saying to her, “We are going to slip this sheet under 
you, to lift you up gently and place you on the mattress, which 
we can then raise into the litter without fear of shaking or hurt- 
ing your foot. All I beg of you is, to remain perfectly passive 
in our hands, and even guard against any involuntary movement 
meant to help yourself or us.” / 

“ This is the second time you have so earnestly warned me 
Am I then very dangerously hurt ?” asked the young lady with 
some alarm. 

“ Not in the least,” replied the Italian ; “you are not to take 
fright at the cautions I impose on you,” and bending again 
towards her, he added, in an undertone, “ you can understand 
that many unpleasant consequences may follow an accident 
without entailing any danger to life. For instance, to cure your 
leg — for, properly speaking, it is your leg that is hurt and not 
your foot — is an easy task, one depending more on time and 
patience than on any surgical skill ; but to make sure, that, when 
it is cured, it shall be absolutely as it was before the injury, not 
the eighth of an inch longer or shorter (Lucy changed color as 
she heard this), is a very different affair, and will require the 
utmost care and nicety. Now, then, do you see why I impress 
on you the danger of disobedience to your doctor,” added he, 
with a smile of encouragement ; “ any imprudence or neglect on 
your side may render every attention on his part useless.” 

Seeing by the look which answered his that he had said erough 
to insure his patient^s docility, the doctor, with Hulchins’ help, 
passed the sheet under Miss Davenne, then beckoning forward 
three of the women, he and they took each a corner, raised her, 


28 


Doctor Antonio. 


balanced as if in a hammock, and laid her first on the mattress 
by her side, then carefully transferred that to the litter. He 
covered her with a shawl, put a cushion under her head, and 
gave the signal of departure ; but the litter was scarcely in 
motion when he called to the bearers to stop and turn it round, 
Eo that her head being foremost the poor girl could see her 
father, who was a little behind. “ It will be a comfort to 
the young lady,” explained the doctor to the women carrying 
her, “to be able to see the dear and well-known face of her 
father.” 

Any one of experience must often have noticed and admired 
the quick perception and delicacy of many a poor peasant in 
all connected with the affections. More especially is the strength 
of the social bonds felt by the olive-skinned passionate children 
of Italy. The four pair of black eyes glistened with tears that 
made them look like black diamonds, while the stout matrons 
uttered, with that peculiar intonation of their country, so expres- 
sive, so indescribable, the usual appeal to the Virgin. 

Lucy did not need to hear the explanation to guess the inten- 
tion of the change thus ordered, and with a slight inclination of 
the head, or rather of her eyelids, accompanied by a smile, made 
the doctor sensible of her having understood it. The look and 
smile brought a pleasant glow to the face and heart of the 
physician. This incident established a sympathetic communica- 
tion, something like a magnetic current according to modern 
parlance, between the young people — the doctor was under 
thirty. What a kind-hearted man, thought Lucy. The gentle, 
grateful heart, thought the doctor. Thus each had had a glimpse 
into the nature of the other. 

The Italian was walking slowly behind the litter, when the 
baronet, coming up to his side, said, somewhat abruptly, “ I 
think it right to introduce myself to you ; — Sir, I am Sir John 
Davenne of Davenne Hall, in shii’e ” 


The Osteria. 


The younger gentleman, thus startled out of his reflecticcs, 
u>ok off his hat, and with a bow sufl&ciently graceful, replied — 

“ And I, sir, am Doctor Antonio, the parish doctor of Bordig- 
hera and there was a twinkle in his eye, as if he relished 
something in his own reply excessively. 

Sir John contracted his nostrils and pursed up his mouth, just 
the play of muscles of one whose sense of smell is offended, an 
habitnal grimace of the baronet^s when either provoked or 
displeased. 

“ May I ask you,” continued he, addressing his interlocutor, 
with a manner too provokingly ceremonious not to betray an 
intense pique, most likely at his not having been consulted in all 
the arrangements abont his daughter, “ may I ask you where 
we are going ?” 

“ Excuse me, my dear sir ” (confound his impudence I said 
Sir John, mentally), “in my huny and anxiety for the lady I 
have forgotten to tell you. We are going to that red house 
yonder, half-hidden by trees,” answered the doctor, pointing to 
a shabby, two-storied, rather dismantled-looking building to the 
left of the road, about half-way between the spot where they 
were and the bright-green little headland already mentioned ; 
“ it is a mere roadside inn,” he continued, “ kept by poor but 
respectable and kind people. You will find there, 1 am sorry to 
say, scanty accommodation, but all proper care and attentioi, 
and,” added he, significantly, “ the thing of most importance in 
this moment, a bed for your daughter.” 

To judge from the play of the muscles about the nose, Sir 
John would have willingly dispensed with a good deal of th^ 
vaunted care and attention in favor of a little more personal 
comfort, but he said nothing of the sort, and replied, — 

“ Well, well, the accommodation is of little consequence, foi; 
as soon as my daughter has had some repose, we shall resumi 
our journey to Nice.” 


30 


Doctor Antonia 


“ Yon are surely not in earnest,” cried the Italian, stopping 
short in his amazement ; but immediately checking himself, ht 
added, in a quiet and conciliatory manner, “ I fear, nay, I aa 
sure, that Miss Davenne will not be able to resume her journej 
for some ” — (a pause of hesitation.) 

“ Hours ?” suggested the baronet. 

“ Days, perhaps weeks,” concluded the doctor, gently. 

Weeks 1” gasped Sir John, standing still in his turn 
“ Weeks I” repeated he, this time with a burst of indignation. 
“ Impossible I I have engagements that I cannot postpone. I 
must be in London within ten days.” 

“ For your daughter, I regret to say, that is entirely out of 
the question.” 

“ Out of the question 1 — out of the question 1” grumbled Sii 
John, “ Why out of the question ?” 

The tone in which this query was put was so peremptory and 
trenchant, that the doctor began to chafe. 

“ Because,” said he, warmly, “ since you must have it, your 
daughters case — it is not my wish to alarm you, but — your 
daughter’s case is not — ” He was going to add, “ what 1 stated 
at .first,” with God knows what else ; but at sight of the auxioua 
look of the already alarmed father, the young physician had not 
the heart to go on, and wound up, instead, with, ‘‘ is not one tc 
be trifled with.” 

There, thought Sii’ John, recovering his self-possession and 
anger, I see what it is : this man is bent on frightening me U 
make the most of a good job — a reflection little calculated t< 
sweeten his temper. 

“ Well, well,” said he, impatiently, ** I know, everybody 
knows what a sprain is. An odd pretension this, to keep us 
prisoners for an indefinite period of time, on the plea of a 
ipraiu 1” 

“ Pretension to keep you prisoner I” exclaimed the Italian 


The Ostena. 


SI 


with a wonderful contraction of the temples. “ Nobody keeps 
yon prisoner, my dear (That second “ my dear sir,” the 

umocent translation of the common form of address in Italy, the 

Caro Signor mio,” one entirely of courtesy and not of fami- 
liarity, acted on all Sir John^s aristocratic fibres as the giating 
of a file upon marble acts on the nerves of most sensitive people.) 
“ You are not among Moorish pirates, there are other medical 
men in the neighborhood whom you can consult, there are 
English physicians at Nice whose advice you can ask.” 

“ I will ask the advice of nobody,” retorted the baronet, 
testily, “ I want none. All I want is to be off, and oiff I will 
be!” 

“ You will do as you please,” rejoined the Italian, “ but I have 
a duty to perform, and perform it I will, and must. Miss 
Davenne, I declare most solemnly, cannot be removed with 
safety, for, at least, ‘ forty days.^ ” And having said this, 
the young man moved on, leaving his interlocutor to his owij 
cogitations. 

“ Forty days I” gasped forth Sir Jonn, standing stock still 
“ Forty days I” and this time he changed the tone of dismay 
L^o an angry cachinnation. “ That^s a good joke I” and delibe 
rate turning back, he waved to John, who was standing near 
the carriage, and desired him to have it brought up immediately 
to the red house, and ascertain what amount of injury it had 
sustained. This done, the Baronet followed the little caravan 
with slow and sullen steps. 

The procession was not long in reaching its destination. 

“ Here we are,” said the doctor, approaching Miss Davenne, 
as, leaving the high road, they turned down a wide lane in the 
direction of the beach, went through a gate on the left, over 
which hung a branch of pine-tree, and entered a garden, wherein 
stood the brick-colored house. The litter was carried up a steep 
flight of outside stairs, and through a large room and a smallei 


Doctor Antonio. 


one to a little chamber, where Lucy and the mattresses wcrt 
deposited upon a bedsteai. 

The doctor dismissed the four women, and turning to hia 
charge, who looked sad and pale, said — 

“ Though everything is very homely here, you may rest satis- 
fied that the bed and linen are clean ; I saw to that before 
bringing you here.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Lucy, in a very low voice. 

“ The bare walls and want of furniture strike you disagreea- 
bly, I dare say,” went on the doctor ; we shall soon try and 
make the room a little more cheerful. Shall I introduce your 
landlady, Rosa, and her daughter Speranza, to you ? Pretty 
names, are they not ?” added he, as he noticed a smile on Lucy’s 
face ; “ they sound like a good omen. Both are very desirous 
of making themselves useful, and you will make them very happy 
by accepting their services.” 

Lucy nodded to the women he pointed out to her, and who 
were standing at the door, one an eld^’-ly woman, the other a 
pale black-eyed girl. They came forward at a sign from Doctor 
Antonio, and kissed the hand of the beautiful young lady with a 
mixture of enthusiastic tenderness and reverence. The fair skin, 
blue eyes, and golden hair, made Lucy seem to them more of an 
angel than one of the same species as themselves. 

The doctor, satisfied with the good feeling he saw already 
established between the guest and her hostesses, said to Lucy, 
“ I must tell you what are the best arrangements I have been 
able to make for you. The four rooms of which this floor con- 
sists, the only decent ones in the house, are given up for your 
use ; this for yourself ; the one next it for your maid ; and on 
the other side of the large entrance room or lobby we came 
through, a bed-chamber for your father. Your man-servant wiP 
have a room down stairs.” 

“ That will do nicely,” said poor Lucy, trying to look cheerful 


Th.; Osteria. 


33 


'* I hope papa will be as well satisfied as I am.” The Italian 
ventured no reply to this extravagant hope, but asked, “ Have 
you any appetite ? Do you wish for anything to eat ?” 

"No, I thank you, I am not in the least hungry.” 

" So much the better. I should not advise your taking any 
solid food for the present. I shall now leave you, and I hope 
you will be able to sleep. At all events, remain quiet, and 
make no attempt at moving, remember. I will send you a mix- 
ture of which you may take a spoonful, from time to time, if you 
are thirsty.” 

" But I shall see you again soon ?” asked Lucy, rather dis- 
mayed at hearing that her new Mend was going away. 

" In an hour or two,” returned the doctor, quietly, " and then 
we shall see what can be done to make this room a little more 
comfortable. I speak, of course, only of relative comfort 
Everything here below is relative, -Jwm i wrc ?” 

There seemed as though a sigh sirug«rled with the smile with 
wliich the question was put. 

"Use your scissors freely in undressing your young lady,” said 
he to Miss Hutchins, on leaving the room. "Miss Davenno 
must not move, must not — you understand?” and then he 
repeated the same caution in Italian to Rosa and Speranza. 

As he issued from the chamber, on the threshold he met Sir 
John, who had lingered a while below to catch sight of the 
carriage. The baronet intimating by neither act nor word any 
wish for communication, Doctor Antonio walked on in silence. 
Keflecting, however, that the baronet might have something to 
say after seeing his daughter, he loitered a few minutes in the 
lobby ; (thus we shall call henceforward the entrance-room.) 
But the Englishman came forth, and, conducted by the girl 
Speranza, crossed the room towards his own without noticing in 
any way the presence of the Italian, who, perceiving that he wa« 
not wanted, left the house. 


2 * 


34 


Doctor Antonio. 


Sir John, when ushered into the room destined for him, threvi 
himself doggedly on a chair, and darted an angry glance around. 
“ A charming place, indeed, to spend forty days in I” sneered 
the baronet. “ Why not six months ?” and he laughed aloud. 
The room, to say the truth, fully verified, if it did not surpass, 
the account of the inn given by the doctor. The once white 
walls, now grown yellow from age, With not even a series of 
wretched prints of the Via Crucis, or a wretched bit of a glass 
to break their barren uniformity ; the undraped window ; the 
old deal table ; the hard cane-bottom chairs, two in number ; 
the long cofi&n-like cassajpamca” (locker) at the foot of the 
uncurtained bed, made the room look more like the cell of an 
anchorite than the bed-chamber of a Protestant baronet. 

“We must get out of this hole at all events,” murmured Sir 
John, rising and walking fretfully up and down, till the sound of 
approaching steps caused him to stop. It was J ohn, who came 
as bidden, to report casualties. Johr>, brought good news. 
Save the glasses that had been smashed, and some scratches on' 
the panels, there was nothing in the state of the carriage to 
prevent their going on to Nice. 

“ Very well,” said Sir John, “have the glasses immediately re* 
placed.” Unfortunately that could not be done. John had already 
made inquiries on the subject, and the result was that panes of 
the required size were not to be found at the neighboring town. 
Sir John pished and pshawed at this intelligence, and declared, in 
the bitterest of tones, that he should have much wondered, indeed, 
if it had been otherwise. John proceeded to state that he had 
not been able to bring the carriage to the door, on account of 
the garden gate being too narrow to permit of its passage : and 
then there was no coach-house there, added John. What was 
to be done ? 

Sir John made no reply, but led the way down to the garden 
gate, and after a short survey of the spot, a look at the carriage, 


The Osteria 


St 


at the sky, and some further hesitation, bade John have the 
carriage removed a little to one side, where it might stand for 
the night, if necessary. “For,” exclaimed Sir John, with an 
angry sigh, “ the nights are still fresh, and unless we can start 
in an hour or two, which is not sure, those damned glasses will 
detain us for the nigbt. But to-morrow,” continued the baronet 
resolutely, “ to-morrow, glasses or no glasses, we shall be off to 
Nice.” 

“ Please, sii*;” observed John, hesitatingly, “will it be safe to 
leave the carriage and luggage all night in the lane ?” 

“ Certainly not,” returned the master. “ Let me see — ^in case 
we are detained, you had better keep watch in the carriage with 
a brace of pistols.” 

Having thus settled the matter, whether much to John^s per- 
sonal satisfaction we cannot say. Sir John mounted the stone 
steps leading to the second story, his present quarters, and 
walked cowards Lucy’s room, but was met half way by Miss 
Hutchins on tiptoe, with a report that her mistress felt very faint 
indeed, and had just closed her eyes to try and sleep. Where- 
upon Sir John, much grieved at the news, which confirmed but 
too well his fears of being kept where he was for the night, 
betook himself to his own room. However, he had not stayed 
there for a quarter of an hour, when out he went again, and down 
the steps, and took to walking to and fro in front of the house, 
pushing on now and then to the outer gate, to cast a melancholy 
look at the carriage and up and down the lane. A second 
attempt to see his daughter having been foiled by the identical 
circumstances that had foiled the first, the unhappy Baronet 
took some dozen turns up and down the lobby, and repaired 
to his own room, sank into a chair, and said aloud, as he 
consulted his watch, “ Why, time stands still in this confounded 
sountry I” 

Yet time had moved on and brought with it a fresh addition tfl 


36 


Doctor Antonio. 


this poor geDtleman’s already superabundant stock of spleen and 
discomfort. Alas for the frailty of all flesh, even for that of thi 
proudest man in England I Sir John was hungry, very hungry, 
and ashamed of being so, and provoked at being so, and terror 
stricken at the dire necessity — a necessity which made itself 
more felt at every passing moment — of having to ask for food. 
Ask for food in that house I — sit down to dinner under thaz 
roof 1 It was tantamount to laying down arms in the face of 
the enemy; it was giving up at a blow all the heroic of his situa^ 
tion. Fancy Attilius Regulus, the first thing on his return to 
Carthage, asking for a beefsteak 1 Sir John felt all this. Sir 
John struggled bravely for a time, but at last surrended. He 
instinctively put out his hand for a bell, of which there was no 
r^stige whatever, and to his mortification had to go to the top 
of the stairs and call for John. “ Go and see what there is in 
the larder,” said Sir John, languidly, “ supposing that there is 
anything like a larder in this — in this place ; however, find out 
if anything fit to eat can be procured.” 

The sacrifice behig consummated, Sir John went to see his 
daughter. Poor Lucy 1 she had all the heroism to herself. She 
was suffering acutely. “ Where, my child ?” — “ Oh, papa, 
everywhere. I feel bruised aU over. I have such an odd and 
disagreeable sensation at ray foot, just as if it were swelled into 
a mountain of cork.” 

“ But, my dear, you know that can be only fancy. Try and 
sleep.” 

“ Dear papa, I have tried, and I cannot.” 

Poor thing, she was fainting with fatigue, and yet could no^ 
get a wink of sleep. Sir John did his best to soothe her, and 
as he fondly stroked the stray curls that lay on her hot cheek, 
promised that she should go to Nice the next day, where, if she 
were forced to remain, she would have every comfort. But his 
words failed of their intended effect. Lucy felt no courage for 


The Osteria. 


tbe journey to Nice on the morrow, she did not tare for the 
comfortable apartments which her father was sure their courier 
must easily have found for them, in a place so much the resort 
of the English : “ and first-rate English physicians, my child, 
he added, by way of something better than all. 

‘‘As to that,” said Lucy, “I am quite satisfied with this 
Italian doctor, he is kinder, and more considerate than any 
of the doctors I ever had — and you know, papa, I have had 
plenty.” 

Sir John puckered up his nose ; he made no answer, however. 

“ Don’t you think so too, papa ?” asked Lucy, with the obsti- 
nacy of an indulged child. 

“Why, Lucy, I cannot say, I have seen so little of the 
gentleman, and I am not given to take hasty likings.” A 
silence ensued, for pretty Lucy did not like being answered in 
this way. 

In about half an hour there was a tap at the open door, and 
John’s voice formally announced that dinner was on the table. 
“ You must try and eat something,” said her father, rising ; 
“ I will send you in the wing of a chicken, or an egg — that cau 
be had here, at least. It will do you good, and raise your 
spirits.” 

“No, papa 1” said Lucy, with marked determination, “ the 
doctor said I was not to eat.” 

“ Well, my dear, follow his directions for to-day,” replied Sir 
’^ohn, as obstinate in his feeling as the young lady ; ‘ to-morrow, 
hope, you will have better advice to go by so saying, he left 
the room. 

“ The cloth was laid in the lobby. The dinner, much to Sir 
John’s surprise, and a little to his annoyance, though v^ry simple^ 
was excellent. Fish, a roast fowl, vegetables, an omelet, cheese, 
preserved fruit, oranges, and a bottle of the wine of the country, 
not to be despised even by the most fastidious palate of a con 


38 


Doctor Antonio. 


uoissenr. Sir John ate and grumbled, but though he grumbled, 
he ate very heartily all tlm time. John, a large black patch 
across his wounded nose, a napkin, not of Flemish damask, but 
of good white home-spun linen under his arm ; John, in white 
cravat and suit of sables, waited on his master , as solemn and 
erect as on a galarday at Davenne, 

The baronet was in the moody enjoyment of his second orange 
fresh plucked from the bough, when Doctor Antonio, a large 
bundle under his arm, made his appearance at the top of the 
oteps. The doctor, with a bow to Sir John, passed on to the left 
— Sir John’s room was on the side opposite — and was ushered by 
Hutchins into Miss Davenne’s chamber. 

** How long you have been I” said Lucy, with all the impatience 
if sickness, as soon as she caught sight of him. 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so,” he replied ; “ it is a good 
sign when the patient longs for the presence of the physician , 
it implies confidence in him, and that is half the battle. I 
have been detained against my will. But tell me how you are.” 
Doctor Antonio listened to his patient’s account of herself 
with that interest which is so consoling to any one suffering, 
then said, “I wish I could relieve you, but I confess, that, 
for the present, at least, I do not think I can. You have gone 
through much agitation and much pain, and nature so disturbed 
requires a little time to recover its equilibrium. All that we 
doctors can do is to help ; we cannot force nature. Drink freely 
of the mixture I sent you ; perhaps it will make you sleep in a 
little while.” 

Lucy shook her head as if she was quite sure she should never 
sleep again, but only said, “ What have you got there ?” pointing 
to the bundle. 

** Some curtains for your window. All these rooms are to the 
south, and we must try and guard you from the intrusion of out 
Italian sun ” So saying, suiting the action to the word, he got 


The Ostcria. 


39 


on a chair, and began driying in some nails as gently as he 
could. “ One learns to be a little of everything in these small 
country places,” said he, looking at her from his not very heroic 
elevation, and with one of the curtains on his arm ; “we are dif- 
ferently off from you dwellers in large cities ; we are poor folks, 
who can offer no inducement to tradesmen to come and settle 
amongst us. Every one hereabouts is his own gardener, carpen- 
ter, and upholsterer, as you see in this moment. Indeed, very 
often, to save the small fee, a man is his own doctor.” 

“You say ‘we^ in speaking of this neighborhood,” observed 
Miss Davenne, “ you do not mean to say that you really belong 
to this place ?” 

“ And what makes you suppose that I do not ?” asked the 
doctor, somewhat amused. 

“ I don^t know exactly,” answered the young lady, “ but there 
Is something about you which makes me fancy that you have not 
lived all your life here.” 

“ In plain words, you mean to say that I do not look quite like 
the boor you would expect to find in the doctor of a village. 
You are an acute observer for your age, young lady.” 

“ And how old do you think I am ?” inquired Lucy, amused in 
her turn. 

“ Sixteen or seventeen at most.” 

“ Much older, I am very nearly twenty.” 

“ Ah 1 indeed ? then you look younger than your age. Well, 
I must do homage to your penetration, and own that you are 
right, so far, in guessing that I do not belong to the Riviera. I 
am a native of Sicily ; I was born in Catania.” 

“ Will you forgive my being so full of curiosity, but have you 
not lived in England ?” 

“No, I have never been there,” answered the doctor. “ My 
English puzzles you also, does it ? I will tell you at once how I 
learnt to speak it. My mother^s eldest sister married, in 1810, 


40 


Doctoi Antonio. 


a British officer of one of the regiments quartered at that time in 
Sicily. My aunt’s children were brought up in every respect 
like English children, and having English nurses, talked English 
from their cradle. Now, as I was educated with my cousins I 
naturally learnt the language also, which became almost 
auniliar to me as that of my own country.” 

Thus, alternately talking and hammering, the busy doctor 
entertained the sick girl and managed to put up the curtains 
He contemplated for a moment, and with an air of great satis 
faction, what his talents in the upholstery line had accomplished, 
then glancing round the room, he said, “ Ah 1 more work for 
me. I see a split in that door behind your bed. Nothing is 
more treacherous than a draught, the smaller it is the worse.” 
Away went the doctor, but was back again in an instant, a long 
slip of paper in one hand, and an egg-shell in the other. 

“ Did you ever see a more economical or expeditious way of 
making paste ?” asked she, showing Lucy the pinch of flour and 
drop of water contained in his egg-shell. 

She laughed, and wondered at his activity and ingenuity. 
Then no one could help being struck by the noble simplicity 
with which he did things gentlemen, in general, think beneath 
them, even putting himself in postures that would make most 
people ridiculous, without ever losing, for a moment, that comely 
manliness of appearance which would not have let him pass 
unnoticed even in a crowd. 

Sir John came in just as Antonio was stooping down to paste 
the paper over the chink. The baronet followed each of the 
doctor’s movements, at first with a look of uneasiness, as if he 
Boepected him of being mad, and then, as he perceived the nature 
of the stranger’s occupation. Sir John’s features relaxed into a 
smile, expressive at once of the most intense disgust and con- 
tempt. Sir J ohn’s beau ideal of a gentleman was himself : now 
not to save the world from min would Sir John have condo 


The Osteria. 


41 


Bcended to what he considered a menial act ; and the man who 
would paste paper over a chink in the door, do the work of a 
carpenter, or paper-hanger, be it even for a Davenne, lost all 
right to respect and consideration in his eyes. 

Whilst Sir John was wasting a great deal of thought on the 
doctor, who never thought of him at all, Speranza, the land- 
lady’s daughter, brought in a large nosegay, chiefly of wild 
flowers, and handed it to Dr. Antonio, who, apparently as con- 
tented with his success in pasting paper as in hanging curtains, 
began at once to examine and arrange the bouquet. Lucy, 
obsei ring that he placed only some of the flowers in a vase, and 
threw others out of the window, inquired why he threw away 
some of the prettiest. 

“ Because the scent of those you call the prettiest may be 
mjurious to you. I intend you to have a nosegay to gladden 
your eyes, and not one to perfume your room. It is wrong to 
put scented flowers into a sleeping apartment at any time, and, 
a fortiori^ they are still more out of their place in a sick-chamr 
ber. Nor do I mean to leave even these here,” and walking 
into the adjoining room, he set the vase on a table, where Miss 
Davenne could see them from her bed. 

‘‘Now, what next?” said he, rubbing his forehead with his 
forefinger, as if trying to recollect something. “ Ah! that is it;” 
and turning to Lucy — “ Are you in the habit of having a light 
in youi’ room at night ?” On her saying “ yes,” he cofitiuued, — 
“ Then we must try and contrive one safe for you.” He called 
to Speranza to bring a cork and a bit of the wick used in their 
• oil-lamps, out of which materials he made a night-lamp, that 
answered as well as one of Child’s patent. After once more 
looking to the bandages on Miss Davenne’s foot, he said, — 

“ It is getting late, so I must wish you good evening. If, 
during the night, you should feel worse, which I hope and think 
will not be the case, — mind I say this solely in reference to yoo 


42 


Doctor Antonio. 


and not to myself — send at once over to Bordighera for m« 
The people of the house will find a messenger ; and then every 
body knows where Doctor Antonio lives. 

“ And pray how far is this — Burdigore, or whatever you call 
it inquired Sir John, speaking for the first time since he came 
into the room. 

“ About ten minutes’ walk,” answered Antonio. “ If you 
come to this window you can see it. There, on the top of the 
hiU to our right.” 

“ Thank you ; and may I beg you to teU me whether there is 
a magistrate to be found in this neighborhood ?” 

“We have a justice of the peace at Bordighera,” replied the 
doctor. 

“ Ha I that will do very well. I shaU find time to see him 
to-morrow early, for I don’t intend to let that scoundrel of a 
postilion escape so easily.” 

“ If that be the case you must have a little patience,” rejoined 
the doctor ; “ Prospero could not obey any summons just now. 
He is ill in bed, not from any bodily injury, but from the moral 
shock he has received. I had to bleed him before coming here 
this afternoon.” 

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Sir John, molified. “At the 
(same time you must agree with me, sir, that it is a duty I owe to 
aU travellers, not to overlook the flagrant misconduct of a 
drunken fellow, and ” 

“ Excuse my interrupting you, sir. I have no wish to screen 
Prospero from blame, but, believe me, intoxication had nothing 
to do with the unhappy event of to-day. Prospero was never 
drunk m his life. I can af&rm this positively, as I nave known 
him for three years. The vice of drunkenness is very rare in 
these parts, and our postilions, especially, are looked upon as 
patterns of sobriety. Ask all the guards of the mail-coaches 
that go daily from Genoa to Nice, and vue. versa, and they will 


The Osteria, 


43 


Usfl you, as they have told me many a time, that if so few acd 
dents occur on this road, in spite of its almost unbroken series 
of ascents and descents, and not a few sharp turnings, it is owing 
tc the care and proverbial soberness of the postilions.” 

Sir John did not reply to this defence, so the doctor, with a 
bow, took his leave. 

“I hope you will not prosecute that poor young man, papa,” 
said Lucy. 

** It would be useless for the present, my dear, as you have 
just heard, and ere the fellow is about again, we shall be a good 
way off.” 

“ Ah, papa,” returned Lucy, “ I fear I shall not be able to 
bear the fatigue of a journey for some time, I feel so weak 
and shattered. I am very sorry on your account, dear 
papa.” 

“ Dodt vex yourself about me, my dear girl,” said Sir J ohn, 
patting her cheek. “ First of all, you don’t know, yourself what 
a night of sound sleep may do for you ; and then, at the worst,” 
added the baronet, grown more magnanimous since his dinner, 
*’ so that you get well, I shall not care about a little discomfort 
for a few days.” Lucy caught his hand, and kissed it gratefully. 

“ Do you know, papa,” said the invalid after a short pause, 
that I have found out what countryman he is ?” 

“Who? — the postilion?” asked Sir John, rousing himself 
from not very pleasant reflections. 

“ Papa, papa, how can you ? — the doctor. He is a Sicilian.” 

“ Indeed ; I have been told that Sicily is a very fine country,” 
answered the baronet, rather coldly. 

“ I am sure there is some mystery about him,” continued 
Lucy. “ I don’t believe — do you, papa ? — that he was ever bom 
to be a doctor. I should not wonder if he turned out to be one 
of the noblemen who have been banished. I remember hearing 
at Rome about political refugees. He is just like one of those 


44 


Doctor Antonio. 


heads by Yandyck we saw at Genoa. Don^t yen think him 
very handsome, papa 

Yes, he is a fine man, and would make a capital chasseur^ 
with his long beard,” said Sir John, drily. 

“ Oh, papa, that is too bad — how can you say so of a person 
o evidently a gentleman, and who has been so very kind 
to us ?” 

“My dear Lucy, your gratitude is not very logical. This 
person having been of use to us, is no reason for my at once 
believing him to be a prince in disguise. However, my dear 
Lucy, I don’t object to your romancing about this black-bearded 
Esculapius, only I suspect he will prefer the mode I shall 
take of showing my sense of the obligations we are under to 
him.” 

Lucy fixed her eyes with some anxiety on her father’s face. 
“ Don’t be afraid, Lucy, the fee I offer to your hero shall be in 
proportion to his presumptive rather than to his apparent rank.” 
As Lucy still looked uneasy, the baronet continued, “You fool- 
ish child, do you think this doctor has given himself all this 
trouble for the love of your pretty face ?” 

Lucy sighed, for she had a very strong idea of her own that 
the doctor had given himself all that trouble out of pure kindness; 
perhaps she was romantic in thinking thus. However, she said 
nothing more, as the sigh was followed by an attack of cough 
which left her in a state of exhaustion. 

Sir John, when she was again quiet, thought it best to leave 
her alone, in the faint hope that she might fall asleep. As he 
stooped to kiss her his eye was attracted by something strange 
at the head of her bed, which he had not noticed before. On 
looking closer he found slightly fixed to the wall a httle leaden 
crucifix, a plaster cast of the holy Virgin, with a small vessel of 
holy water incrusted underneath, and a palm branch, which, in 
fiEict, had been blessed. Any one who has ever travelled in Italy 


The Osteria 


a 


nmst have seen such things laily, either for sale in the streets, or 
in the bedrooms of the poorer houses. Sir John, as exclusive is 
matters of external worship as in everything else, lost his little 
remaining patience at finding what he considered idolatrous 
emblems over his daughter’s head, and peremptorily ordered 
Hutchins to carry away all that trash, and to take care that he 
never saw such in any of the rooms again. He waited to see his 
order obeyed, and then, in no very chaiitable frame of mind, 
took a candle, and retired to his own apartment. 

Lucy’s discouragement as to moving next day, and the state 
of complete prostration in which he had left her, caused Sir John, 
once more alone, to recur with sad misgivings to Doctor Antonio’s 
alarming declaration as to the impossibility of his daughter’s 
removal, and as he thought on it, the firm determination hitherto 
nourished to pay that declaration no attention, began to waver. 
Evidently a reaction was taking place in Sir John’s mind. For 
the first time, since entering the Osteria, the proud gentleman 
felt as if the terrible award of “forty days” in that wilderness 
might be ftilfilled. An admission, it is true, no sooner made than 
recalled, nay, put at nought by a mental rejoinder, to the effect, 
that will, and money to execute that will, could not fail, after all, 
to conquer all difficulties. If a mattress were placed across the 
seats of the carriage, thought Sir John, and the horses made to 
go at a walk, why, Lucy would lie there as safe and comfortable 
as in her own bed. An excellent arrangement to be sure, but — 
there were stiU “buts” in the way. Alas 1 do what he would 
to see it not, reality, stern reality, stared the unhappy baronet in 
the face. 

Amid such conflicting thoughts he prepared to lie down on his 
bed with a heavy sigh — a sigh not merely called up by the 
appearance of the miserable couch and the prospect of an uncom- 
fortable night ; other grounds for disquietude now awoke out of 
old recollections in the baronet’s mind. That he was in a strange 


Doctor Antonio. 


land, amid foreigners, none of his own countrymen within reach, 
Was in itself enough ; but that he was among Italians was 
more than enough to occasion and authorize all sorts of fears 
There was in a cell of his brains a tapestry of notions about Italy, 
on which stilettos, banditti, and vendette, figured in juxtapositio*! 
with solitary inns, or gaunt houses by the sea-shore, where traveh 
lers were enticed, murdered, and plundered. “ Devilish diagree- 
able country I” sighed forth Sir John, “ and where your village 
doctors must needs look like Rinaldo Rinaldini.” The bells of 
the churches at Bordighera tolling the De Frofundis, marking 
the first hour of night ; the voices of the fishermen hailing each 
other in the distance ; the very sound of the sea breaking lazily 
on the beach, had something sinister to the baronet’s ear. He 
stole quietly out of his room, went to the lady’s-maid’s door, and 
calling to her, bade her, in a cautious whisper, lock and bolt her 
door, then returning to his own chamber, he barred himself in, 
and went to bed in as happy a disposition of mind as if he 
had fallen in with a tribe of Red Indians. 

We must render this justice to Sir John. Had he known and 
Relieved that the accident met with by his daughter was of the 
serious nature it really was, uneasiness about his darling would 
have prevented all such paltry misgivings and fears from raising 
their hydra heads ; whereas, indulging the belief that there was 
nothing worse the matter than a sprained ankle, and seeing 
in that no cause for apprehension. Sir John was sufficiently 
at ease to be able to brood to his heart’s content, not only 
over the real annoyances, but over what he was pleased to fancy 
the dangers of his situation. But how could he, in the face 
of many a suspicious circumstance, and after Antonio’s trans- 
parent hints, still labor under such a delusion? The answer 
is obvious. Sir John was misled by a pre-concei red idea, the 
idea that Doctor Antonio had every interest in rather exag- 
aeratioa: than diminishing the seriousness of the injury sustained 


The Osteria. 


bj Miss Da?eime. And as to his ever supposing that an utter 
stranger, a village doctor, and an Italian to boot, could, out 
of regard for his. Sir J ohn’s feelings, have kept back the worse 
feature of hfe daughter’s case, such an absurdity could never enter 
his mind. The haughty baronet might as well have supposed 
that — ^that the Davenne family was not one of the first families in 
all the United Kingdom. 

While Sir John bolted himself in, and his humble namesake, in 
a state of intense nervousness, kept watch in the carriage, Rosa 
and Speranza, their services being no longer required by their 
guests above, had betaken themselves to their intended sleeping- 
place — a small, dark back-kitchen, and in which a little store of 
charcoal and wood was habitually kept. A straw mattress, and 
a blanket between the two, were to be their bed and covering ; 
it was all these poor, simple, hard-working creatures had thought 
of reserving for themselves. Between compassion for the young 
lady and awe of Sir John, and his man John, they had given up 
for their use not only that part of the house destined to the few 
humble chance of travellers who sometimes passed the night 
there, but also their own room, and all they possessed in shape 
of bedsteads, mattresses, linen, pillows, etc. Far from regretting 
the sacrifice of their usual little comforts, mother and daughter 
were entirely engrossed by how they could add to those of their 
unexpected inmates. — “How fortunate,” said Speranza, “that 
these gentlefolks should travel with their own plate 1 But for 
that, what should we have done with our four silver spoons and 
forks? For only think, mother, the old gentleman must have 
clean forks and spoons with every dish.” And the two women 
fell to reviewing in their minds the households of their wealthier 
aeighbors, and weighing the chances they had of having such and 
such articles of furniture lent to them on the morrow. But, after 
all, what was the use of their racking their brains, when there 
was Doctor Antonio ? Doctor Antonio would manage to get aU 


Doctor Antonio. 


4S 

that was wanting — Doctor Antonio would set ererything to 
rights. To hear the two women, anybody might nave supposed 
that this country doctor was one of the genii in the “ Arabian 
Nights,” who had only to stamp his foot to make the earth bring 
forth a palace, with all its appurtenances. 

“ There is one thing, mother,” said the girl, “ we must do at 
once, and that is to take down the pine branch from over the 
gate. I know the old gentleman cannot bear the sight of it, he 
made such a face when he passed it.” — “Then it shall come 
down,” replied the mother ; “ perhaps we had better take the 
benches and tables out of the garden. To-morrow is Sunday, 
and the folks from Bordighera will be coming here after Vespers, 
and I am sure the gentleman wonT like to see so many people 
about the garden. We can give those who choose their bottle 
of wine in the parlor, and those who donT must go elsewhere. 
It wonT do to have smoking and singing going on under the 
window of the Signorina .^^ — “ That’s true,” said the daughter j 
“ Doctor Antonio, of all things, said she was to be kept quiet. 
Oh, mother, did you ever see such a sweet face ? she looks like 
the Madonna over the altar ?” — “ Aye, she does indeed,” agreed 
Rosa. “ God bless her I”— “ God bless her I” echoed Speranza ; 
and with that blessing on their lips, mother and daughter fell 
asleep. 

Having for the present disposed of all our personages save the 
principal one — the one at least who ought to be so, according to 
our title-page — we may as well take a peep at him. 

Doctor Antonio’s dwelling at Bordighera consists of one toler- 
ably large room, which answers at once for drawing-room, 
consulting-room, and library, and within which opens a small 
bed-chamber ; one side of the sitting-room is entirely covered 
with well-filled book-shelves ; half a dozen chairs and a middle- 
sized table complete the furniture. On the wall opposite to the 
book-shelves, hang a flute, a guitar, two foils, some fencing-gloves 


The Osteria. 


49 


Mid masks ; belov these is a map of Sichy. Books are lying ob 
the chairs, on the ground, everywhere ; and there is a mountain 
of them on the table, before which s^'cs our hero, caressing hia 
beard, and poring over a volume, which absorbs all his attention. 
Between the printed leaves there are colored engravings of legs 
in all stages of dilapidation, and of every variety of mode of 
dressing and bandaging them. Now and then Doctor Antonio 
rises and walks up and down the room, in deep meditation, goes 
to the book-shelves, takes down a large folio, and seems to 
be comparing notes. Hours are going swiftly by, and he is still 
reading and stroking his beard. Presently he looks at his watch, 
exclaims aloud in astonishment at how time has passed, lifts his 
lamp as if about to go to his bed in the next room, then stops 
suddenly, puts down the light again, and once more goes to the 
book-shelves. There is yet one point on which he is not quite 
clear, there is a complication which may arise, and which he has 
not yet found mentioned. 

The dawn shining through the windows found him still reading 
At length he closed the book, extinguished the now useless ItWfi 
tad all dressed as he was, threw himself on the bed 


50 


Doctor Antonio. 


Chapter III. 

Sir John Davenne. 

Sir John Davenne, the fifth baronet of that name, h«d 
Inherited wifh his paternal acres, what was to the full as much a 
family possession, and one as carefully transmitted from genera- 
tion to generation — the tic of overweening and most exaggerated 
pride ; pride of pedigree, of every person that could, in the 
remotest degree, claim kindred with the Davennes, of everything 
belonging or having belonged to them, and a corresponding con- 
tempt of every thing or creature less favored in a line of ancestry 
and historical, recollections. 

The Davennes of Davenne, in the county of , professed t« 

be descended from the Norman squire of the name of D’Avesne, 
mentioned in sundry chronicles as having attended a De Vere at 
the battle of Hastings. Sir John asserted, as his father and nis 
father^s father had done before him, that the Davennes had 
always shared in the glories and dangers of the warlike De 
Veres, who, history tells us, were among the hosts of Coeur de 
Lion’s Crusaders. Emerging from the borrowed light of these 
nobles, a Davenne won his golden spurs about that period, and 
from that time their family history became incorporated with that 
of their country. The Davennes took their share in the wars of 
the Roses : one was killed at Bosworth, another went with 
Essex to Ireland ; a Davenne after manfully fighting at Marstoa 


Sir John Davciinc. 


51 


Moor and Naseby, was among the few who accompanied Charles 
ir. his flight to the Scots, and remained near his unfortunate 
master to the last — one of the most obstinate and undaunted of 
the cavaliers. When the power of Cromwell became supreme 
and established, Davenne, whose property had been confiscated, 
fled with his family to join the court of the young Charles in 
Holland, His loyalty and devotion to the royal cause met with 
a more favorable denoiuement at the Restoration than that of 
many other cavaliers as loyal and devoted. He not only 
received back his own estate, but, the tables being turned, 
got that of his neighbor to boot, who was, in the language of 
the times, a crop-eared Roundhead. It was at this epoch, also, 
that the Davenne of that day was created a baronet, a title that 
the two baronets, the father and grandfather of our Sir John, 
had refused to have converted into a higher one ; the late Sir 
Aubrey saying, he liked better to be at the head of the baronets 
than at the tail of the lords. 

From the Restoration to t^e Revolution of 1688, the Daven- 
nes seemed to have thought more of attending the hereditary 
paternal acres, than of intermeddling with the quarrels of 
kings and parliaments. It is certain that the family remained 
at Davenne when James the Second took refuge at St. Germains. 
Probably the Sir John of that day had youthful recollections, 
which counselled him to shrug his shoulders at the wickedness of 
the time, and to content himself with damning, in his own halls, 
the refractory bishops and Commons. The only evidence he 
gave of his adherence to the Stuart dynasty, was in refraining 
himself and all his family from appearing at the court of William 
and Mary. 

The war-like spirit of the old Davennes suddenly blazed out 
again in the eldest son of this prudent father. He fought and 
distinguished himself under Marlborough, and attained to the 
rank of general. Hi? successor, Sir Aubrey, paid tribute to the 


Doctor Antonio. 


military exigencies of his sire, by serving during the war of the 
American Independence. Keeping in mind the professional feel- 
ing of Sir Aubrey, and his high tory principles, handed down for 
centuries from Davenne to Davenne, it is easy to imagine the 
bitterness with which he viewed the success of the Americans, 
and the acknowledgment of their autonomy. But one must 
have lived in those days, or received from the lips of those who 
were then actors on the scene, a description of the English citb 
zen, and of the country gentleman in particular, to be able to 
conceive the virulence, hatred, and horror that took possession 
of Sir Aubrey when the Revolution of 1189 broke out in France. 
His feelings at moments were worked up almost to phrensy, when 
in the daily papers he read speeches of English orators, which, 
to the angry tory, seemed to express, in the very Parliament of 
Great Britain, sentiments little better than those of the French 
Republicans. 

The reigning Sir John, Dorn in 1183, had consequently been 
educated and had grown up to manhood amid all the violent feel- 
ings roused on this side of the Channel, by the state of affairs in 
France, and twenty years of incess^ant war. From the day when 
a child, he stood by his father’s chair, and gave the daily toast 
of “ Confound the French I” up to the present moment. Sir 
John’s opinions, likings, and dishkings, all partook of the color- 
ing of the passionate medium through which they had passed, 
and in which they had been developed. An unbounded and 
exclusive admiration for all that was, and an utter abhorrence of 
all that was not English, enclosed his mind and perceptions as 
within a Chinese wall. 

Sir John had married in 1811, two years after his father’s 
demise, the daughter of Viscount Deloraine, and grand-daughter 

by the mother’s side of the Duke of . It was a happy 

chance that this marriage united safety to the “ sangre azul ” of 
his line, and satisfaction to his own inclinations, for Sir John 


Sir John Davenne. 


53 


was not the man to have done violence to his affections, for a 
twofold reason ; first, because he hated contradiction in any 
shape ; secondly, because he believed the lustre of his family to 
be such, as to make up for all deficiencies of escutcheon in his 
intended bride, had his choice fallen even on the daughter of a 
cobbler. In the spring of the year following this union, his son 
and heir was born, and became the point on which his pride and 
affections centred, it not being till 1820, when the little Aubrey 
was in his eighth year, that a girl came to put in a claim for her 
share of interest and love. 

lu 1815, when the Continent was thrown open to British 
travellers, Sir John, prevented in his youth from making a grand 
tour, thought it befitting a man of his quality to make up, 
though rather late, for this deficiency in an aristocratic educa- 
tion, and, with his wife and little son, spent some months in 
visiting France, Germany, and Italy. It is scarcely necessary to 
say, that Sir John’s sojourn abroad left undisturbed the spider’s 
web of prejudice spread over his intellect, which kept safe all the 
dead flies of his youthful notions. Intercourse with foreign 
people and manners, such intercourse at least as fastidious 
morgut and a perpetual fear of “ deroger ” would allow of, rather 
strengthened than otherwise what Sir John considered his 
patriotism ; that sort of patriotism w^hich shut up all honor, aU 
good, all worth, within the narrow circle of which he himself 
was born and lived and moved. 

Shortly after this foreign tour, a vacancy having taken place 

in the representation of shire, where Davenne was situated, 

Sir John was urged to stand for the county, but declined that 
honor, as indeed, he had constantly declined being returned for 
the family borough. Sir John had good sense enough to know 
that he was neither born to shine as an orator nor a statesman, 
and too much pride to figure only among the silent “ yes and 
noes ” of the House. But the ambition which he had not for 


54 


Doctor Antonio. 


himself, Sir John cherished, and thought himself amply justified 
in cherishing, for his son. Aubrey was a fine Hercules of a boy, 
full of the sportiyeness and arrogance of the unchecked child- 
hood of the rich. His high animal spirits, vivacious boldness, 
and dauntless repartees, were, in his father’s eyes, so many 
tokens of precocious genius. Far cleverer men than Sir John 
are blinded by parental partiality and pride of authorship. 
Aubrey, then, evidently destined to become a great man, was 
devoted to parliament and statesmanship while still in petticoats, 
and, scarcely out of them, placed in the hands of a tutor, who 
was to di’ive him full gallop to the first stage of the journey, 
Oxford. But the little William Pitt, in the bud, opposed to all 
scientific and literary inoculation a vis imrtict worthy of a 
better cause ; which being perceived in the long-run even by the 
infatuated father, he sent his son to Eton, where, in fact, the 
young gentleman soon distinguished himself, not in classic learn- 
ing, but in the native arts of boxing and single-stick. 

At seventeen, Aubrey, at once a jpetit-mattre and a. bold young 
scamp, took leave of Eton and schcol-boy life. He had already 
all the appearance of a man, his physical development being in 
the inverse ratio to the intellectual. When informed by hia 
father that he was to go to Oxford, and that he was vowed from 
his childhood to the priesthood of Downing street, Aubrey 
begged distinctly to state that he hated politics, thought books 
in general a bore, and, as sure as he went to Oxford, he should 
oe rusticated, if not expelled : that he had long made up his 
mind to serve no other god or goddess but Mars ; and that the 
best thing his father could do was to purchase him at once the 
right of defending his majesty’s colors. All this was said with a 
fluent flippancy that struck to the earth the father’s cherished 
ambition. Sir J ohn tried reasoning, coaxing, expostulating, and 
at last threatening : but Aubrey was his father’s own son ; he 
tossed his handsome head, damned the family borough and tlw 


Sir John Davenne. 


5 & 


House of Commons ; and gave it as his ultimatum, that if his 
father did not consent to let him enter the army as a gentleman, 
he would enlist as a common soldier. 

Sir John^s hair rose on his head as ne listened to young 
WiifuPs declaration, and as he listened the conviction flashed 
upon his mind that the boy would be as good as his word. Sii 
John knew something of the Davenne blood, and had sundrj 
recollections of Master Aubrey’s early obstinacy. The struggle- 
was kept up for some time, but ended, of course, by Aubrey’s 
being victorious ; for, under the dignified coating, which made 
of Sir John Davenne a somewhat remarkable person, there 
lurked, as we have hinted, a host of weaknesses — the most natu- 
ral among them paternal over-indulgence. Now Aubrey, with 
his manly swagger and great good looks, was born to be the 
successful opponent, nay, tyrant of his father. In the baronet’s 
eyes, the arogance which was the base of his son’s character — 
an arrogance so intense that it seemed as if all the pride of the 
buried Davennes ran liquid in his veins, was a grace the more 
Even all Aubrey’s boyish scrapes at Eton, which, as recounted 
by himself, showed they took their origin from an unwarrantable 
assumption on his own part, had but endeared him the more to 
Sir John, who saw in this spirit which brooked uneasily an 
equal, only the proper pride befitting the representative of the 
Davennes. Thus it came about, that within six months after 
leaving Eton, Aubrey was gazetted cornet in a dragoon regi- 
ment, and within the year sailed with the for India ; he 

having brought his father not only to consent to his entering the 
army, but — more difficult still, for here his idolatry of his son 
militated against the son’s wishes — to negotiate an exchange 
for him into a regiment under orders for Calcutta. Aubrey’s 
waking and sleeping dreams had long been on tiger and elephant 
hunts, and India his land of Canaan. Thus the realization of the 
son's asp»«»-*loiis had crushed those of the parent. 


56 


Doctor Antonio. 


While smarting under this severe disappointment, the first of 
any importance in his hitherto uncheckered life, Sir J ohn, looking 
round him in search of consolation, perceived, for the first time, 
that he had at hand a balm for his heartsore in the paU lovely 
cherub who lifted up to him her tiny arms, and seemed to ask 
for her share in his affections, a share that was soon all hers. 
The wound that Aubrey’s egotistical wilfulness had inflicted was 
scarcely skinned over, when the decease of Lady Davenne again 
threw a deep gloom over the baronet’s home. Lady Davenne’s 
health had long been declining, and more rapidly so ever since 
her son’s departure. The blow was none the less felt for being 
anticipated. Sir John’s grief was extreme, though silent and 
subdued ; for the haughty baronet considered all outward 
demonstration of strong feeling inconsistent with his dignity. 
He had another also, and better reason for controlling his emo- 
tions, viz., the fear of adding, by his own, to his daughter’s 
violent affliction. 

Sir John retired to his home in the country, and lived there 
in comparative seclusion, entirely engrossed by his daughter, 
who had now become his one occupation — his one pleasure. 
Lucy was a weakly, sensitive, intelligent child, truly needing all 
a parent’s fostering care, one of those lovely fragile blossoms 
which equally call forth fond hope and tender anxiety. Country 
air, however, regular hours, and a prudent alternation of exercise, 
and repose, of study and amusement, under the management of a 
sensible governess, so successfully strengthened her health, that 
at seventeen Miss Davenne, though still somewhat delicate, was 
grown into a tall, blooming, cheerful girl, and passing beautiful 
withal. 

The life of a London belle was now before her. Sir John 
never dreamed of her departing from the habits of her caste. 
She was to be presented at court ; and the closed shutters of 
the house in Square were once more opened, and such sun 


Sir John Davennt 


57 


and light as is to be found in the metropolis of Great Britain 
shone in on the stately rooms. To town, then, Sir John and his 
daughter went in the spring of 1837 ; and Lucy, once launched 
into the current of London gaiety, was soon whirling giddily in 
its eddies. The end of her first season found her with pale 
cheeks and exhausted spirits ; but the qualm that Sii John had 
felt was easily forgotten, when he saw that some months of com- 
parative quiet at Davenne seemed to set her to rights again. 
Youth is a potent auxiliary to recovery ; so when spring came 
round, it found father and daughter again in London. But 
party giving and party going, heated rooms and late hours, were 
not long in counteracting Nature’s beneficial effects. Lucy’s 
head drooped before the height of the season was reached ; the 
alarmed father heard again the dry short cough — the signal of 
an enemy he had not forgotten. 

Poor Sir John called in first one physician and then another ; 
one advocated country air and milk diet ; a second, cold ablu- 
tions and horse exercise ; a third, sea-bathing and port-wine, but 
all agreed in the necessity of an entire abstinence from every 
kind of excitement or gaiety. All was tried, but not any or all 
the remedies were able to banish the fits of teasing cough that 
thrilled through the heart of the terrified father, nothing could 
vanquish the morbid languor which seemed about to arrest the 
current of his daughter’s life. Lucy continued thus for some 
months, until the physicians gave that advice, which to expe- 
rienced ears sounds like the passing bell : “ Try a change of 
climate ; let Miss Davenne spend next winter at Rome,” was the 
fiat issued. In spite of an old grudge he had against Rome, — 
* the dullest place in Christendom,” Sir John was used to call it, 
and at the cost of the newly restored delights of clubs and 
coterie, the baronet had not a moment’s hesitation. The house 
in liondon again exhibited closed shutters— that dreary mark of 
desertion ; the housekeeper at Davenne had a month’s work iu 

3 ^ 


68 


Doctor Antonio. 


dressing up all the furniture ; and Sir John and his daughter 
went to Rome. 

The sacrifice was repaid. The winter of 1839-40 proved one 
of the finest and mildest ever recorded at Rome, and six months' 
breathing of the soft congenial air had a most restorative effect 
on Lucy’s constitution. Sir John was so happy at this result, 
that, with the approbation of an English physician of some 
renown, he determined to prolong his stay until the hot weather 
set in, travel in Switzerland during the summer, and return again 
to Piazza di Spagna for another winter. Just as he had made 
all his arrangements there came a letter from Aubrey, now Cap- 
tain Davenne, dated from Madras, announcing his intended 
return by the next mail, on a furlough of three years. This 
necessitated a change, or rather modification of Sii’ John’s plan. 
They must leave Rome earlier than he had purposed, and Eng* 
land would have to take the place of Switzerland in their 
itinerary. The only embargo laid by the doctor, when con- 
sulted again, was that the journey should be made by sea and 
not by land, to spare the newly convalescent Lucy all possible 
fatigue. 

In compliance with this advice. Sir John and his daughter, 
towards the middle of March, embarked at Civita Vecchia on 
board a government steamer, bound for Marseilles. The sea 
was like a lake when they sailed, but the fine weather lasted 
only a few hours. One of those furious gales, frequent in the 
Mediterranean at that time of the year, suddenly came on. The 
vessel, with both paddles disabled, lay at the mercy of the winds 
and waves for a night and day, and it was not till after a narrow 
escape of being wrecked in the Gulf of Spezzia, that the passen- 
gers were landed at the town of that name which lies to the 
east of Genoa. The protracted terror and sea-sickness had so 
completely worn out Lucy that she was unable to move or even 
stand ; she had to be carried ashore in this pitiable state, and 


Sir John Davennr. 


59 


more tham a week^s rest was required ere she could recover 
sufiBcient strength to resume the journey, — this time by land, and 
by easy stages, the courier being sent forward every morning tc 
provide the best possible accommodation for the night. Exhaus- 
tion was unluckily not the only result of the combined fright 
and sea-sickness. Some of the old symptoms which had vanished 
during the sojourn at Rome, re-appeared, to Sir John^s great 
alarm. 

It' was on the fourth day since their leaving Spezzia, when 
having slept at Oneglia, they expected to be at Nice by the 
evening, that our story found the father and daughter ; the 
latter, as we described, tossing restlessly in search of ease and 
sleep, the former, divided between newly-awakened anxiety for 
one child, and the mental delivery of sundry speeches to the 
other, all intended to persuade him to leave the army and take 
to Btatesmanship. 


60 


Doctor Antonia 


Chapter IV. 

Skirmishes. 

Rather tliougiitfiil, but with his usual air of self-possession, at 
a good steady pace, but without hurry, Doctor Antonio, early 
the next morning, might have been seen coming down the hill of 
Bordighera in the direction of the roadside inn, where his young 
charge lay. Doctor Antonio was not handsome, at least not 
handsome as heroes of novels generally are. He had a large 
mouth, a nose of a cut neither Greek nor Roman, rather high 
cheek-bones, in short, a cast of features altogethe** irregular and 
somewhat leonine, — all that could be said in its favor being, 
that it was highly expressive and intellectnal. There was 
power of will and thought in his round prominent temples, 
which he could contract wonderfully at times. His smile, occa- 
sionally tinged with a shade of quiet irony, was habitually sweet 
and winning. The appearance of the man, on the whole, was 
remarkable, with more in it, perhaps, of what commands respect 
Ik an attracts sympathy. 

Our doctor, then, early in the morning, made his way to the 
Osteria dd Mattom, such being the name of the humble roadside 
inn ; whether so called from its red brick color, or from standing 
upon a ground once occupied by a brick-kiln, we have no data 
to go by. That it had a wi’etched, as well as a quaint appear- 
ance, no one with eyes in his head could venture to deny. The 


Skirmishes. 


61 


fact was that, when first built, the house had been intended to 
have its front to the north, that is, to face the road, but in 
course of time, probably to escape from the dust, the original 
windows and entrance had been blocked up with stones and 
plaster, and new ones broken out on the opposite side, viz., on 
the side that faced the south. The consequence of this was a 
twisted and distorted, and somewhat unnatural look, most 
ludicrous to behold. To replace the stairs which formerly 
had led from the ground floor to that above, and which the 
present arrangement rendered useless, a double flight of massive 
stone steps, connected at the top by a wide landing-place or 
balcony, had been added on the outside, and went up from the 
garden as high as the middle window of the upper story, cut 
down to answer as a glass-door. These comparatively enormous 
steps and balcony being sadly out of proportion with the diminu- 
tive house against which they rested, increased the oddity of its 
physiognomy, and suggested the idea of a grown man^s coat 
the back of a boy ten years old. 

Doctor Antonio found his patient in a state far from satif 
factory. Lucy had scarcely closed her eyes all night ; com- 
plained of headache and constant thirst ; her lips were parched ; 
her pulse bad — she was in a high fever. “ I wish I had bled 
you yesterday,” said the Doctor, after feeling her pulse ; “ have 
you any objection to being bled ?” 

“ None in the least, if you say it is necessary,” replied Lucy ; 
“ but you had better speak to papa first.” 

“ Very well ; will you be so good, then, as to send your maid 
and tell Sir John Davenne that I wish to see him ?” 

Hutchins, with a glance at her mistress, moved to go. 

“Wait a moment in your own room, Hutchins, before you go 
to papa,” said Lucy ; “ I want to ask Dr. Antonio something.” 

As soon as they were alone, Lucy opening wide her eyes, 
bright with fever, fixed them earnestly on the rather astonished 
doctor, and then said, “ Am I in danger ?” 


62 


Doctor Antonio 


The doctor laughed outright. 

“ No more than I am,” he answered; “ what put such a notioi 
into your head ?” 

“ Pray,” said Lucy, “ don^t try to cheat me ; don^t treat me 
like a child. I am not afraid to die, and if I am dying I ought 
to be told, and I must, and will know.” 

" You have a bi*ave heart, I am sure,” replied the doctor, with 
«ome emotion, but I can assure you that your present situation 
calls for none of your fortitude. Believe me, you are no more 
likely to die just now than I am.” 

^‘Parokb ?” asked Lucy, putting out her little thin hand. 

“Parola” answered Antonio, grasping it with his own. 

“ Thank you,” said Lucy ; “ I will tell you now what made 
me think that I was in danger. Early this morning the first 
thing I saw was the girl you called Speranza. I suppose I had 
been half-asleep, for I did not see her come into the room. She 
was seated in a chair watching me intently. Her eyes, so 
expressive at any time, were so full of pity and sadness when 
they met mine, that a thrill of fear shot through my heart. 
Tears, big tears, were actually rolling down her cheeks. Me- 
thought that a girl would not have been so distressed about a 
stranger, except something very wrong was the matter with me, 
and as I felt very ill I could only fancy ” 

“ Very absurd things,” interrupted the doctor. “ Speranza is 
a foolish girl, full of feeling, which she cannot help showing, in 
and out of season We Italians are noted as a silly demonstra- 
tive people, you know,” added he smiling. “ Besides, I do not 
wonder that a warm-hearted girl, such as I know Speranza to 
be, should be moved to tears to see one so young and bo — 
(here Antom’o stopped and hesitated, but not more than a 
second,) and so lovely, suffering so much. Will you allow me 
now to see your father ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” and raising her voice a little, Lucy bade Hutohin? 
go and deliver Dr. Antonio’s messap-e. 


Skirmishes. 


63 


Sir John had got up very early in the deplorable frame of 
mind of one who had passed a deplorable night, and had some 
hints of gout into the bargain. Sir John had already seen 
Hutchins, and received from her an unfavorable report of his 
daughter’s state, and consequently lost all hope of leaving that 
day. Sir John had called for John to bring him his razors, and 
heard that John was not in the house. This string of annoy 
ances had told in a forcible manner on the nerves of the absolute 
baronet, who waited impatiently for the return of his servant to 
pour out on his large round head all the amount of crossness — 
crossness, not wrath, is the word — that was pent up in his 
breast. “ Everything goes wrong in this cursed counti 7 I” 
exclaimed the baronet, by way of relief. 

Sir John had few but very decided notions about Italy and 
Italians. Italy, Sir John allowed, was a fine country, but 
scarcely habitable : a furnace in summer, a glacier in vdnter. 
Rome was a place worth seeing, but dull 1 dull 1 dull 1 The 
Italians he pronounced to be a rapacious, shabby-looking, oily- 
tongued people, who never went out without a rosary in one 
pocket and a stiletto in the other. Every second man met with 
in the street was either a singer, or a bandit, or a ruined noble 
who lived by his wits ; a catalogue of the constHuent elements 
of the Itahan social body, enriched of late by the fresh addition 
of the bloodthirsty republican conspirator, plotting for ever 
against his lawful sovereign — a new variety of the species Italian, 
of which Sir J ohn had heard much during his late stay at Rome, 
from a young Roman prince, the nephew of a cardinal, and who 
greatly affected English society. For, the better to study 
Italian character, habits, and manners. Sir J ohn frequented only 
English families ; had an English physician, English servants, 
even an English cook ; ate English dinners, drank sai-disani 
English wines, and bought from English shops — in short. Sir 
John had realized at Rome a little London of his own. 


•4 


Doctor Antonio. 


When John, on his return, presented himself before his mas 
ter, his face had on it such a lively expression of despair, that 
even in his present mood the baronet changed the meditated 
storm of invective into the question of, — 

“ What the devil is the matter now ?” 

I have been at Bordighera, sir,” replied John, “ and there is 
neither beef, nor tea, nor fresh butter to be had I What are 
we to do ?” asked John in so piteous a tone that three parts of 
a smile extended Sir John’s lips. 

Just at this interesting moment there came a rap at the door, 
and Miss Hutchins with the message. Sir John, a liVle alarmed, 
went at once to the lobby, where he found the doctoi. Sir John 
begged the doctor to be seated. 

“ I find Miss Davenne this morning,” began liie doctor, as an 
took a chair, “ wifh a good deal of fever. It is only what 
I expected. I think she would be relieved by a little bleed* 
ing.” 

Sir John, one of whose favorite crotchets it was that all 
Italian doctors bled all their patients to death, on hearing this 
proposal gave a bound on his chair, and said with great 
warmth, — “ Bleeding I no bleeding whatever, on any account. 
I wiE have no bleeding I” 

Doctor Antonio colored up to the white of his eyes, — and who 
knows what he was going to reply ? — but checking the ready 
rejoinder by a strong effort, he said, slowly and calmly, “ Not 
even if I assure you that it is absolutely necessary ?” 

** I do not admit the necessity,” replied Sir John, doggedly ; 

and I make no bleeding the sine qua non of your attendance on 
my daughter.” 

“ It is so. is it ?” said the doctor ; and without further parley 
drew out his memorandum-book and wrote down some names on 
A fly-leaf, handing which to Sir John, he continued, — “ There 
are the names and addresses of the two nearest medical practi 


Skirmishes. 


6S 


fcioQers ; the young lady will be safe with either of them. ^ 
shall not withdraw till one of the gentlemen is here.” So sayings 
he rose, with a bow, went to the balcony, and stood against the 
railing with folded arms, in the attitude of a sentinel waiting to 
bo relieved. 

Face to face with the resolve so suddenly acted upon by th« 
Italian, Sir John, like most people who have been huiried on by 
passion, began to regret having gone so far. Like i on Alp, 
one difficulty after another showed its rugged herJ Suppose 
ueitb«r of the other two doctors spoke English, — not very proba- 
ble they would ; suppose Lucy, who had taken a fancy to this 
Antonio, refused to see them ; suppose thk man was right, and 
suppose her life should be endangered by his opposition. There 
is nothing for it, thought Sir John, hut a little conciliation with 
this most disagreeable of Italians — the man, of course, waits but 
for a word ; and making a prodigious effort, he called out in a 
querulous tone, “ Why do you wish to bleed 

Because,” replied Antonio, toning towards the baronat 
as he uttered the words, and then resuming his former posi- 
tion, “ because, as I have already stated, I think it indispen- 
gable.” 

A dead pause ensued. 

“ Italian practice everywhere the same,” broke out Sir John, 
soliloquizing aloud ; “ nothing but the lancet — the same quacks 
all through the country. No, no, it can’t be ; how can I 
authorize bleeding ?” 

Antonio heard, but made no reply. 

** Dr. Antonio, you are then determined to bleed ?” exclaimed 
the baronet, walking about the room in exasperation. 

** You mistake,” retorted the young man, with some haughti* 
ness ; I am determined to do no more in this case but resign 
the young lady into better hands. I shall wait the arrival 
of my successor below,” and he moved towards the steps 


66 


Doctor Antonio. 


Sir John came to the glass-door, and in utter desperatoa 
mid, — 

“ Perhaps I have been too hasty ; but you can undepstand 
my feelings, sir, — the feelings of a father for an only daugh 
ter.” 

There was real distress in the voice, real distress in the work= 
ing of the baronet’s features, as perceived by the doctor, who 
had faced round upon him. 

“ The proof that I understand and respect your feelings,” said 
Antonio, “ is, that instead of resenting your taunts on my prO’ 
fession and country, which I would have done with anybody else, 
I adjure you once more to let me do foi my patient what I con- 
sider necessary.” 

The words were spoken so simply, yet so earnestly, there 
WM such a stamp of dignity about the whole man, as he stood 
on the threshold in the attitude of one giving a solemn warning, 
IK) much reserve yet courtesy in his voice, that Sir John, pro- 
voked as he was, could not help being struck by the ensemble, 
nnd said, with marked hesitation, — 

“ If I were to consent to your bleeding my daughter, I should 
be going against the express caution of every physician who has 
ever attended her.” 

“ I should myself have given you similar advice,” saiji Antonio ; 
“ but there are certain conditions which must modify the most 
salutary rules, and Miss Davenne’s state is a case in point.” 

“Well,” said Sir John, “ situated as I am, I have no alterna- 
tive but to let you do what you think proper ; only remember, 
that in bleeding Miss Davenne you act entirely on your own 
reponsibility.” 

“ A thing I have never shrunk from, and I accept it willingly,” 
replied Antonio, brightening, and without any further delay he 
returned to Lucy’s room. 

Sir J ohn had no sooner given this ungracious consent than h%' 


Skirmishes. 


67 


angry with himself for giving it, and walked back to hii 
room with the feeling of one sorely aggrieved. At the end of a 
quarter of an hour, this feeling, duly nursed and fondled, nad 
grown up, expanded, and ripened, into a clear and decided con 
viction that he had been unfairly got the better of, a discovery 
immediately followed by intense commiseration for himself, the 
victim, and a burst of fresh hot indignation against Antonio, the 
nctimizer. “ And so here I am at the mercy of this man I” said 
Sir John to himself. All the Davennes^ proud blood tingled in 
his veins at the idea. He angrily strode to the glass-door and 
called to John, who was pacing the garden in low spirits, to order 
post-horses for the carriage at once, and to come up to him 
afterwards. Then opening his desk with a violent jerk, the 
baronet began to write, not with his usual pompous composure, 
but much in the improved stage mode, making dashes right and 
left, fit to tear the paper to the heart, accompanied by a scratch- 
ing and spluttering of the pen, sufficient to set on edge the teeth 
of any but a man in a passion. 

Sir John had finished and sealed his angry missive, when his 
servant brought in the consoling intelligence that the horses 
would come up immediately. ‘‘ Put them to, the minute they 
come,” said the baronet, “ and go to Nice as fast as you can 
with this letter to the British Consul there, and deliver it into 
his own hands. I have asked him to give you the name and 
address of the first physician — English physician I mean, of the 
town. Find him out, and bring him here at any cost, and with 
the least possible delay. No stoppages on the road ; you must 
be back here to-morrow.” 

John bowed, and in ten minutes more Sir John had the conso- 
lation of hearing the carriage roll off. 

One word is due to the messenger. John Ducket was the 
lineal descendant of a generation of servitors of the Davenne 
family, all like himself born and reared on the estate of Davenne, 


58 


Dcxrtor Anton o. 


and snccfoding one another as butlers with a regularity that had 
finished by making the office hereditary in their family. J ohn, 
born while his master was still in petticoats, had been named by 
Sir Aubrey after his heir, in recognition of the faithful services 
of the Duckets. As Time used his scythe, John succeeded his 
father and grandfather, and was now Sir John’s confidential 
valet — a man in whom the baronet put infinite trust, and less to 
his master’s credit, often his souffre-douleur. John had been 
drilled to passive obedience from his youth upwards, and con- 
tinued to walk in that way — an obedience far from onerous, for 
if there was a man in the world who thought more highly of the 
Davenne family than Sir John himself, that man was John 
Ducket. He worshipped the very name ; every word that fell 
from Sir John’s lips had all the authority of an oracle with his 
man. Had Sir John ordered him to go to Nice and bring him 
back the first person he met in the town instead of the first phy- 
sician, John would have set out with the same determination 
to obey literally, and believed Sir John to be perfectly in 
the right. 

While John, lolling at his ease inside his master’s carriage, 
plays the baronet, and looks down superciliously on the pedes- 
trian wayfarers, who take him for a great personage, and touch 
their hats to him as they get out of the way — while Sir John 
counts the passing hours, and savors in spirit revenge, that fruit 
so sweet in anticipation, so bitter in the tasting. Doctor Antonio 
awaits with disguised anxiety the effect of the morning’s bleed- 
ing. He has already called four times in the course of a few 
hours, and Hutchins continues to give the same answer, which he 
continues to receive with the same look of intense satisfaction : 
** Miss Davenne is quiet, and appears to sleep.” As no one is to 
be permitted to enter her room for fear of disturbing a rest sc 
longed for and so necessary to the poor girl, Hutchins, who 
watches her through the door left open between the rooms, from 


Skirmisnes. 


69 


time to time goes on tiptoe to Sir John and gives him a simUai 
bulletin. The house, thanks to Rosa’s and her daughter’s atten- 
tive care, is so quiet that one might fancy it uninhabited. The 
Sunday customers from Bordighera are pitilessly sent away 
Towards evening Lucy calls her maid, and asks if the doctor is 
come. He has been sitting alone in the balcony for the last 
hour, and goes to her at once. Lucy feels better, even thinks 
she has slept. Antonio places his fingers on her pulse, desires 
her not to speak, holds a glass containing a bland soporific to her 
lips, and wishes her a good night. No doubt of it ; the timely 
bleeding has dissipated the complication that he apprehended ; 
you see in his face that a great weight i^ taken off his mind. 
His step, as he walks homeward, is more springy than in the 
morning, and he hums a tune as he goes. 

Lucy slept, and soundly ; indeed did not awake till ten the 
next morning, and then so refreshed and composed that she felt 
quite another creature. “ I was beginning to think you meant 
to dismiss me altogether,” said Antonio, cheerfully, as he was 
ushered in by Miss Hutchins. “ I have called twice already this 
morning, and each time found closed doors.” 

“ I really have slept unconscionably late,” said Miss Davenne, 
in a little confusion. 

“ All right,” replied the doctor ; “ you have to make up for 
much lost time. And how do you feel ? your countenance is a 
herald of good news.” 

“ What does it say ?” asked Lucy ; “let me hear if it speaks 
the truth.” 

“ Tt says,” Antonio went on, “ first, that you have got rid of 
fever ; secondly, that you are wishing for some breakfast. Have 
I guessed aright ?” 

“ Like a second Daniel,” answered Lucy, smiling ; “ I was 
really just longing for a cup of tea and some fresh butter.” 

“ Hum,” said the doctor, “ for the cup of tea we are all sate 


rO Doctor Antonio. 

1 was so sure that an English young lady would be sighing for 
her tea, that, see, I put some in my pocket for you.” 

“ How kind of you,” said Lucy. “ Do you, as an Italian gentle 
man, disapprove of tea ?” asked she, with some return of archness 

“ Quite the contrary — I am a great devotee of ‘ the cup that 
cheers but not inebriates I always take tea for breakfast my- 
self. As to fresh butter, thaD is a very different affair. I 
believe if I were to offer its weight in gold, I could not find any 
for you in this neighborhood.” 

“ Don’t people eat butter here 1” exclaimed Lucy ; “ or do you 
mean to say that no one here knows how to make it ?” 

** They are not quite so behindhand,” answered the Italian ; 
“ but I will tell you all about it presently. As you have been 
such an amiable patient, doing me such credit, I must contrive to 
reward you. I shall make you some butter myself.” 

“ You I” cried Lucy, “ you churn butter I” 

“ You will see,” he answered, almost laughing at her genuine 
surprise ; and went out of the room, and returned in a quarter of 
an hour, carrying a large bottle three-parts full of milk. 

He now seated himself near the bed, and with all the gravity 
in the world began shaking the bottle with a violence and perse- 
verance that soon made him as red as fire. Lucy tried in vain 
not to laugh. “You are laughing at my churn,” he said, very 
calmly ; “ it is a primitive one, to be sure, but it will do its 
work very well ;” and up and down went the bottle again 
“ Look,” he said — and he held it before the large pair of eyes 
that were fixed upon him with such a mixed gaze of merriment 
and wonder — “ do you see those little balls ? That’s the begin- 
ning of your pat of butter.” 

“ But you forget,” said Lucy, “ that you have not told me why 
you are obliged to make the butter yourself and as she spoke, 
the thought crossed her, “ What would papa think ff he saw the 
doctor now ?” 


Skirmishes. 


71 


In the first place,” explained the doctor, " the soil is too dry 
here to afford good pasture, and that is the reason why our 
farmers do not keep more than one or two cows. 'Now the milk 
of one or two cows does not give cream enough to make it worth 
while to churn every second day, you know.” 

“No, I don’t know anything about it,” said the still laughing 
girl ; “ but go on.” 

“ The consequence is,” he resumed, “ that they wait till they 
have a week’s cream before they make any butter, and as by 
that time most of the cream is rancid, the butter it makes 
is detestable stuff, that burns your throat, and half chokes you. 
Yet, it might be very good, for owing to the aromatic plants that 
grow about in abundance, the milk, though not rich, is very sweet. 
But the truth is, there is no demand for butter.” 

“No demand 1” replied Lucy. “ How do all the people in the 
neighborhood, I mean the gentlemen’s families, manage ?” 

The doctor smiled. “ We are not in England, signora, and we 
find our oil an excellent substitute.” 

“ Oh 1” said Lucy, “ I have such a horror of oil.” 

“ One of your English prejudices,” he answered. A short 
silence ensued, while Lucy considered the manly, intelligent face 
and commanding figure of the doctor, so at odds with his occu- 
pation. At last, after an earnest searching gaze into his bottle, 
the doctor exclaimed, Eccolo, oh caro^ here’s your pat of 
butter ;” and with a little triumphant air, he added, “Now I 
must see to the washing and pressing of my microscopic produc- 
tion, lest it should melt away during the process.” Hutchins’ 
countenance, during the whole of the performance, would have 
been a good study for a painter ; incredulity, derision, and at 
last wonder, being admirably expressed in every feature of her 
face, 

“ As I cannot come and churn for you every day,” said the 
doctor, returning, “ I think the best way to have fresh butter 


72 


Doctor Antonio 


for jou and your household daily, is to hire a couple of cows foi 
your use. Speranza will manage the matter for you, if you like, 
and milk them herself, she said, to be sure that the article 
was genuine. And since we are on the subject of eatables, 
let me give you one or two hints which may be useful, as you will 
not be able to leave this poor place for some little time to come.” 

“ What will papa do, then ?” said Lucy, anxiously ; “ he is so 
impatient to go to London.” 

“ My dear young lady,” answered Doctor Antonio, soothingly, 
“depend upon it. Sir John cares for nothing so much as for your 
recovery ; so now listen to what I was going to say. Two mail 
coaches are daily passing this, one from Genoa to Nice, and one 
from Nice to Genoa, and you can by their means be regularly 
supplied from the markets of either place with anything you may 
require, only you must have some one at Genoa or Nice to pur- 
chase for you, and have the things brought to the coach-office. 
1 have friends in both places who will undertake all this for you, 
if you like.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said Lucy, “ but we have our 
courier at Nice who can do all that for us without troubling 
your friends.” 

“So much the better,” replied Antonio. Hutchins at this 
moment entered with the breakfast, and Miss Lucy attacked the 
toast and butter with an alacrity of good omen, pronouncing the 
butter to be the very best she had ever tasted. “Now that I 
think of it,” said Miss Davenne, “ what has become of Speranza ? 
I have not seen her since yesterday morning.” 

“ Speranza,” answered the doctor, “ has had a good scolding, 
and is ashamed to show herself.” 

“ Ah I so you have been scolding ; why did you scold her ?” 

“ For frightening a certain young lady with her nonsensical 
scared looks,” returned Antonio ; “1 should never have guessed 
her to be such a simpleton.” 


Skirmishes. 


ra 


“ How asked the young lady. 

“ I suppose I shall do no harm by telling you of her foohshness. 
You must know/^ continued the doctor, “that when the girl 
heard that you had sent away the crucifix and the Madonna 
hanging by your bed ” 

“ She took offence, did she I” suggested Lucy. 

“ No, no ! but she at once jumped to the hasty conclusion that 
you were not a Christian, and she felt so sorry, so sorry, as she 
told me, to think that you never could go to Paradise, that when 
she next saw you, she could not help crying about it.” 

“ Dear kind soul I” exclaimed Lucy; “ she must not be allowed 
to believe that I am not a Christian. Pray, Doctor Antonio, go 
and fetch her.” 

He went at once, and presently returned drawing in after him 
the reluctant Italian girl, looking prettier than ever, her cneeks 
as red as cherries with the glow of shame. “ I beg your pardon, 
signora,” she faltered to Lucy. “ I did not mean to offend you, 
indeed I didn’t.” 

“ I am not offended, car a mia,^^ said Lucy prettily, in Italian, 
though with a little embarrassment on her side also, which 
brought a faint blush on her pale face ; the two girls made a nice 
picture. “ Truly, I am grateful to you for taking so much 
interest in an utter stranger. If I were not a Christian, I should 
indeed be an object for the pity of every one. But I am, my 
good Speranza, and I worship and pray to the same Father in 
heaven whom you worship and pray to.” 

Speranza took the young lady’s hand, and was about to carry 
it to her lips, when Lucy drew her hastily forward, and kissed her 
on the cheek. 

“ That will do now,” interfered the doctor, who did not want 
his patient to grow excited ; “ you must not forget that some of 
my butter is still on your plate.” 

Sir J ohn came into the room a little after this scene, and while 


74 


Doctor Antonio. 


the actors in it, still under its impression, were looking jery 
pleased. For, though not new, it is nevertheless a consoling 
truth, and one worthy of being recorded, that nothing is so 
wholesome, notning does so much for people^s looks, as a little 
interchange of the small coin of benevolence. Sir John was in a 
mood that allowed of his taking the infection of the good humor 
he saw in the others. Unlike the first night. Sir John had slept 
very well — is it not wonderful and mortifying to think how much 
the color of one’s mental perspective depends upon the sort of 
night that one has passed? — Sir John, then, had slept very well ; 
had shaved to his heart’s content ; had received a good account 
of his daughter ; had had a cup of excellent tea — the doctor’s 
own tea, and altogether felt in good spirits. 

“You see, Sir John,” said Doctor Antonio, good-humouredly, 
after the morning’s salutations had been exchanged, “ you see 
that even so terrible an extremity as bleeding may be attended 
with satisfactory results. Here is your daughter to witness the 
fact.” 

“ No one rejoices more sincerely than I do at the success of 
your remedy ; and Miss Davenne and myself are much indebted 
to you,” replied Sir John, with no little embarrassment, as the 
thought came upon him all at once of the possibility of the 
English physician arriving while the Italian was still there. 
But just as the apprehension of such a collision presented 
Itself before him. Doctor Antonio, took his hat, saying, that 
he was afraid he should not be able to call again before the 
evening. 

“ Are you going to desert me, now that I am better ?” asked 
Miss Davenne, with a cloud on her brow. 

“Not for the world,” replied the doctor, earnestly ; but I 
have a visit to make at a place some mUes off, which I have 
delayed for the last two days, and can do so no longer.” 

“One moment. Doctor Antonio,” said Sir John, so much 


Skirmishes. 


75 


relicTed that his good humoi waxed active, and with an 
instinctive wish, so common in human nature, to do something 
to please the man for whom he had prepared a rod of mortifi- 
cation ; “ can you give me any news of that unlucky post-boy ?” 

“ Of Prospero replied the no little surprised doctor ; “he is 
poorly enough ; he has an intermittent fever.” 

“ Is it dangerous ?” asked Lucy. 

“Not dangerous,” was the answer, “but likely to nail him 
to his bed for weeks ; — a very sad prospect. Miss Davenne, for 
people who have nothing to trust to for their bread but the 
labor of their hands, and who, besides, have others dependent 
upon them.” 

“ Is Prospero married ?” inquired the young lady. 

“Not yet, but he has an old mother and a younger brother 
whom he supports, for poor Prospero is a better son and brother 
than postilion. But I really must leave you, so good-bye, and 
a rivederlaP 

“ Papa,” said Lucy, when the sound of the doctoPs steps had 
died away, “you have no objection, have you, to my sending 
some money to that poor man ? Doctor Antonio gives him such 
a good character.” 

Sir John checked an exclamation of satisfaction that rose to 
his lips at a proposal which gratified at once his parental pride 
in the warm feelings of his child, and reconciled the promptings 
of his really kind heart with those extravagant notions of dig- 
nrty, before whose tribunal all soft impulse was a weakness. 
The fact is, that Sir John, to his praise be it said, on hearing of 
poor Prosperous case, had instantly begun to think how he could 
manage to send him a little money without committing himself 
Now, Lucy^s proposal was just what he could have wished. 
Prospero would have the money, and it would be her doing, not 
bis ; so he answered, with a studied carelessness, ‘ You may do 
■o if you wish it, my dear, though no thanks to him that w* 


76 


Doctcr Antonio. 


did not break our necks : however, that^s no reason why th« 
mother should sufifei. Send the money to the poor old woman, 
who certainly deserves to be pitied for having such a hare-brained 
son.” 

“ T think, papa, I had better talk to Doctor Antonio about it, 
ae will tell us what is best to be done.” 

“As you like, my dear,” said Sir John ; then, to change the 
subject, he remarked what a beautiful day it was. 

“ Is it not ?” said Lucy ; “ and the air is so sweet. Go and 
take a walk, papa, it will do you good.” 

“ I have half a mind to do so ; but you will be lonely, 
'>erhaps. Would you like Hutchins to read to you while I am 
mt ?” 

“ I asked the doctor if she might do so, papa, but he said it 
would not do yet.” 

“ Your Doctor Antonio, my dear,” said Sir John, fretfully, “is 
i dreadfully slow man.” 

“ You know the Italians have a proverb that says, ‘ chi va 
piano va sano, chi va sano va lontano^'* replied Miss Davenne, 
playfully, “ I will be quiet and think. A pleasant walk to you, 
papa.” 

The sea, the sky, the mountains, everything was smiling 
around, and a soft breeze tempered the ardor of the, noonday 
sun. As, fanned by the genial air. Sir John walked on leisurely 
towards Bordighera, a sense of physical comfort stole over him, 
and under its influence all the better feelings of his nature 
awoke. Indeed, so softened was his heart, that had he been 
called on to specify his grievances against Doctor Antonio — 
windmills which yesterday he had mistaken for giants — ^he would 
have just now been sorely at a loss how to do so. We may 
even go so far as to aver that there was a moment in which Sir 
John wished, actually wished, that he either had not sent John 
to Nice, or that John might return alone. 


Skirmishes. 


77 


But his good humor was short-lived. Exactly because Sir 
John was very proud, he was also a very sensitive person, and 
likely to be ruflSed by finding a doubled rose-leaf on his couch of 
grandeur The doubled rose-leaf came to disturb him this time 
m the bodily shape of a lusty villager, with a frank good- 
humored countenance. Sir John had already met several peo- 
ple, all of whom had lifted their caps as they passed, which he 
felt was only just as it ought to be. The news of the accident 
which had befallen the English gentleman and his daughter, the 
description given by Rosa and Speranza of the surpassing beauty 
and gentleness of the latter, had spread both far and wide, and 
had naturally created a warm sympathy for the strangers. This 
feeling the good-natured people met with by Sir John had 
expressed on this morning, as we said, by taking their caps off 
to the gentleman ; but the stout laborer just mentioned was not 
to be satisfied with silent pantomime. He accosted the baronet, 
and addressed him at some length, winding up with an attempt 
to shake hands ; a familiarity hateful to Sir John at elections 
and public rejoicings in England, and one he was little inclined 
to tolerate on a road in Italy. The burly peasant, whose profes- 
sions of interest and good-will were expressed in a patois utterly 
unintelligible to his listener, was far from dreaming of the offence 
he had given when he saw the embarrassed Englishman suddenly 
turn his back upon him, and retrace his steps to the Osteria, 
where he arrived in a very different temper from that which nad 
graced the beginning of his walk. 


78 


Doctor Antonio 


chapter V, 

A Pitched Battle. 

Sir John bad not been long home, when the sound of fast- 
approaching wheels made him spring to his feet, and hurry to 
the balcony, from whence he perceived his own carriage standing 
at the garden gate, and his own man John, who, after assisting 
a short, plump, middle-aged gentleman to alight, conducted him 
across the garden. Sir John hastened to close the door between 
Hutchins’s room and the lobby, and returned to his observatory 
in time to see the new-comer stop at the foot of the steps, take 
off his hat, draw forth a snow-white handkerchief, and while 
slowly wiping his large bald head, shining in the sun like a 
golden ball, take a hasty survey of all that he could see of his 
own person ; then, after first stamping one foot and then the 
other, to shake away some small particles of dust that dimmed 
the brilliancy of his polished patent-leather boots, mount the 
stairs with a deliberate step. “ Something like a physician,’^ 
murmured the baronet, as he caught a nearer view of the broad, 
honest, English face, close-shaved chin, and rigorous professional 
black costume, to which the irreproachable white neckcloth and 
finely-plaited wide shirt-frill gave an exquisite finish. Sir John’s 
Heart expanded as a flower bitten by the first frost expands 
under the cheering rays of an October sun. 

Sir John’s reception of the stranger was as cordial as Sir 


A Pitched Battle. 


79 


Tohn’s nature and habits permitted : he put out the index and 
medium of his right hand in sign of welcome, and positively 
made a slight apology for the trouble he had given. The Eng- 
lish doctor received with due deference between his own thumb 
and index the two fingers held out, giving them a gentle profes* 
sional pressure, as if he were feeling their pulse. This done, 
Doctor Yorke — for such was the name of the new doctor, such 
a contrast to the other — with the self-possession of a man long 
habituated to deal with all classes of all nations, and to detect 
at a glance the besetting foible as well as the besetting malady, 
proceeded to beg Sir John not to speak of trouble. His services 
were, as they ought to be, at the behest of sufferers in general ; 
it was his duty to be prepared for all emergencies. In the pre- 
sent case, any little personal- inconvenience was more than 
compensated for by the honour of making the acquaintance 
of Sir John Davenne (here both gentlemen bowed), and by, as 
he fondly hoped, the satisfaction of being of use to Miss 
Davenne, of whose unfortunate accident he had heard from the 
servant. 

This was all according to Sir John^s ideas of propriety ; and 
the sense of relief he felt in listening to Doctor Yorke, was 
something only to be compared to what a man feels who escapes 
from suffocation. While the stout little doctor paused to take 
breath. Sir John had time to bless his good fortune that had sent 
him a man so well bred. At last, all the preliminaries being 
over, the two Englishmen sat down, and Sir John entered o,t 
length on the tale of his misadventures — the embarking at Civita 
Yecchia, the horrors of the storm, the landing at Spezzia (what 
a hole that Spezzia I beds as hard as stone, and too short by a 
foot), and the journey by land up to the climax of the overtm’n. 
To hear Sir John, one would have thought that the storm in the 
Medittrraneaa ’-nd the short beds at Spezzia, were both contrived 
for bia ^persona; annoyance; but he made no specific charge until 


80 


Doctor Antonio. 


he came to the unlucky wight of a postilion, when, forgetful of 
the morning’s mercy, the baronet declared his belief that the 
overturn was a deliberate act, nothing less than a clear attempt 
at murder. “ Ask me not his motives,” pursued Sir John wax- 
ing warm — for Sir J ohn wanted to be angry, and was trying all 
he could to lash himself into a passion — “ his motives ? do I 
know what may have been his motives ? — But that there was 
premeditation, cool premeditation, sir, I have an unanswerable 
proof in the scoundrel’s indifference after the mischief was done. 
Did he so much as lift his little finger to render assistance ? jS"©, 
sir, he stood as unconcerned as his horses. No, I am wrong, the 
poor beasts shook with terror.” 

Sir John next described Doctor Antonio bursting on them 
like a Congreve rocket. “ The queerest looking figure for a 
medical man I ever met with,” said the baronet, “ with a beard 
like a French pioneer, and a sugar-loaf hat just like a captain of 
banditti in a melo-drama.” Doctor Yorke’s polite attention 
redoubled at this point, and in the left corner of his mouth there 
quivered an arch smile, either in compliment of Sir John’s gra- 
phic powers, or in enjoyment of some odd conceit of his own. 
“ This Doctor Antonio, if that be really his name, says he is a 
physician, and without the smallest ceremony pounces upon my 
daughter, sets about examining her foot, declares there is nothing 
• the matter but a sprained ankle, and with not so much as ‘ by 
your leave,’ takes upon himself to order her to be carried here. 
Well sir,” proceeded Sir John, with angry and significant 
emphasis, “ that is not all. I naturally enough expressed my 
intention of continuing my journey to Nice after a few hours’ 
rest. * Hours I’ cries the man, staring at me, ‘ rather weeks.’ 
Weeks I and on my remonstrating at the mention of such a 
monstrous period, the oracle pronounces his award, that my 
daughter cannot be removed for at least forty days. Forty 
days 1 verv easv for him to say. hut not so pasv for me to cwt 


A Pitched Battle 


Al 

thrc agh in such a place as this ; to say nothing of my only son, 
Captain Davenne, being expected in London at the end of this 
month, after an absence of ten years.” 

“Very provoking, indeed,” remarked Dr. Yorke 

“Not that this circumstance can alter the case in point,” 
added Sir John, condescendingly ; “but I put the question to 
you. Doctor ” 

“ Yorke,” suggested the doctor. 

“ I put the question to you, Doctor Yorke, speaking to you as 
to a distinguished member of the medical profession — (Doctoi 
Yorke bows) — Is it likely that a mere sprain would prevent any 
one from travelling in an easy carriage for the enormous length 
of time of forty days ?” 

Doctor Yorke, thus directly appealed to, drew a massive gold 
Bnufif-box with an inscription on it out of his waistcoat pocket, 
gave it three consecrated taps, held it to Sir John, who declined, 
took a pinch himself, and after a second of self-indulgence and 
meditation, said that the query put to him was not so easily 
answered as might seem on a prima fade view. Generally 
speaking, a simple sprain is cured in a week or two, though he 
must add that he had met, in the course of his practice, with 
accidents of that description attended by such aggravated symp- 
toms, as to necessitate absolute repose for even a longer period 
than that mentioned by the baronet. In which category was 
Miss Davenne’s sprain to be placed ? that was the point at issue, 
and which nothing, resumed Dr. Yorke, could decide but a care- 
ful examination of the foot. 

“ Exactly so,” chimed in Sir John, “ a careful examination by 
a gentleman of your standing and experience is all I can wish 
for. I shall willingly bow to your authority.” 

“Then, Sir John, the less time we lose the better,’ obser*ed 
Doctor Yorke. “ Is the Italian gentleman here ?” 

Sir John replied in the negative. 


82 


Doctor Antonio. 


“ I beg you will send for him immediately, as his presence u 
indispensable.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it, Doctor Yorke,” answered the baronet, 
rather shyly ; “ for when Doctor Antonio paid his visit this 
morning, he mentioned that he had a call to make at some 
distance, and was not likely to return before the evening.” 

“Very strange 1” exclaimed Dr. Yorke, “when he knew you 
had sent to Nice for a consulting physician.”, 

Sir John, with increasing embarrassment, was here obliged to 
confess that he had not mentioned the circumstances to Doctor 
Antonio. 

“ God bless my heart, this is very awkward 1” said the little 
gentleman, beginning to look very blank. “ Do you not know, 
my dear Sir John, that it is a rule, a canonical rule among us 
medical men, never to examine another man’s patient except in 
his presence ?” A fine mess we are in, added he, mentally to 
himself. 

“ But, Doctor Yorke, under the present circumstances, cannot 
you dispense with a mere formality ?” observed Sir John, in a 
persuasive tone : “ we are in Italy, you know, not in Eng- 
land.” 

“ The rule holds good here as well as there,” quietly returned 
the English practitioner ; “ it is not the mere formality it appears 
in your eyes, nor a mere act of courtesy either. It has been 
accepted as a law amongst us, with a view to prevent abuses, 
most likely to arise if there were no restrictions. You know the 
vulgar adage, Too many cooks — Ah I there you are,” continued 
the doctor, in quite a different key ; “ how lucky I we were just 
regretting your absence.” 

These last words were addressed to Doctor Antonio, whose tall 
figure here darkened the outer door. Doctor Antonio had 
returned sooner than he expected, and as he rode past the 
Osteiia, a sort of misgiving had seized him that the toast 


A Pitched Battle. 


8a 


And butter of the morning might have proved hard of digestion, 
so to clear this doubt, he had alighted and called. 

Antonio’s round, salient temples worked fearfully, and. a flash 
of anger darted from his eyes — but it was only for a second, and 
as he entered the room his countenance was restored to its usual 
serenity and placid smile. Doctor Yorke rose with extended 
hand to meet his brother in medicine. Sir John now became 
disagreeably aware that the two physicians were acquainted, and 
to all seeming on excellent terms, which in fact they were. They 
had become known to each other at the time the cholera was 
raging at Nice and' in the environs, and had met for many a 
consultation on that sad occasion, and stood side by side at many 
a deathbed. 

“ How do you do, my dear sir ?” said Antonio, cheerfully, 
“ how glad I am to shake hands with you I Come down to see 
the young lady, eh ? we will go to her presently.” 

“You see me here,” said Doctor Yorke, desirous of divesting 
his position of all ambiguity, “at Sir John Davenne’s express 
invitation, to consult about Miss Davenne with Miss Davenne’s 
physician, who, I am glad to find, is yourself. I am sure when 
the patient is in such good hands there is no need of me ; how- 
ever, if you have no objection ” 

“ None in 'the world,” said Doctor Antonio, not allowing his 
colleague to finish the sentence ; “ to submit the measures I have 
employed to so kind and competent a judge, is at all times an 
honor for me” — Doctor Yorke waved his fat white hand depre* 
catingly — “ yes, an honor, and, allow me to add, a gratification,” 
wound up Antonio. 

“ But enough spoken between old friends ; I fear I have 
already detained you too long. Had Sir John DaT^^nne been so 
good as to let me know this morning that he expected you,” pur- 
sued the Italian, with meaning in his voice, and facing round upon 
the baronet, “ you should not have found me out of the way” — 


84 


Doctor Antonio. 


Sir John’s conscience lent weight to the words, and he held hif 
tongue, glad that he had not found time to mention the bleeding, 
the second count in the indictment against Antonio. “ I am now 
at your service, Doctor Yorke, but I think there is a point to be 
considered before we go to Miss Davenne, that is, if she be unpre* 
pared also” 

“ Quite so,” said Sir John. 

“ Well, then,” went on the Italian, “ Miss Davenne may, per- 
haps, take fright, be alarmed I mean, as sick people are apt 
to be, by the very unexpected sight of two doctors at her 
bedside — (“ And enough, too,” said the English physician, in a 
stage aside) — “ she may very naturally suppose,” continued Dr. 
Antonio, gravely, that something very serious is the matter with 
her.” 

“ Ah, true I” very right, very thoughtful indeed,” smiled Doctor 
Yorke ; “an old head on young shoulders. Sir John.” 

Sir John wished Doctor Yorke would not be so facetious. 

“ It would be prudent, therefore,” resumed the Italian, “ to 
introduce Doctor Yorke as a friend of mine.” 

“No lie that,” put in Doctor Yorke. 

“ A friend of mine, met with by chance on his way back tc 
Nice, and of whose advice I was glad to avail myself.” 

This proposal being agreed to, Sir John went to his daughter 
to tell her of the intended visit. 

As soon as Sir John had left the two doctors alone, Antonio 
said, “ I must profit by this moment to warn you that the case in 
question is of a serious nature, nothing less than a fractured leg, 
and a foot severely sprained.” 

Doctor Yorke drew in his lips, ejaculating, “ Tut, tut, very 
bad, very bad I” 

“Yes, indeed,” pursued Antonio, “ a very disagreeable complt 
cation. Unwilling to alarm my patient, who is a delicate 
excitable young creature, I termed it a sprained ankle.” (“ A 


A Pitched Battle. 




good notion that,” struck in the Englishman ,) — * ind as 1 was 
about to state to the father the real nature of the case, the 
ofd man looked so scared that my heart failed me ; the more 
so as I knew that he was condemned to remain in this out-of-the- 
way place, and among strangers. Now I think it over,” con- 
tinued Antonio, “ perhaps I was wrong ; and if you consider 
it more advisable to make him acquainted with the true nature 
of the case” 

** By no means, by no means,” interrupted the short gentleman, 
nurriedly. “ What could be the use of doing so ? You have 
acted like a fine fellow as you are ;” and seizing Antonio’s hand, 
the little doctor gave it a warm squeeze. Hutchins made the 
English doctor put a bridle on his sensibility, by announcing that 
her young lady was ready to receive the gentlemen, who followed, 
and entered Miss Davenne’s room arm in arm, to satisfy any 
demur on her part as to their friendship. The Italian formally 
introduced the Englishman as his colleague and intimate friend. 
Doctor Yorke followed the lead, and said a multitude of little 
prettinesses to the young lady, whose reception of the new doctor, 
if polite, was very cool. The inspection of the foot scarcely 
lasted a minute. After a few questions from Dr. Yorke, for 
form’s sake, and the expression of his gratification at the pros- 
pect of her speedy recovery, the two doctors withdrew, and so 
did Sir John. 

They found the cloth laid in the lobby, and a succulent refec- 
tion served — thanks to provident John, who had taken advantage 
of his trip to Nice to bring back a supply of beef, tea, and fresh 
butter, likeiy to suffice for six months, and stuffed every spare 
inch of the carriage, with all the delicacies of the table he could 
lay hands on, both in the way of eating and drinking. Sir John 
and the English doctor sat down to lunch, J)o^tor Antonio 
declining the baronet’s invitation to join them. Antonio placed 
himself in a manner to face both Sir John and the doctor, find 
after a little silence, addressed himself to the latter. 


86 


Doctor Antonio. 


* As I have some engagements,” said he, “ that rather press ot 
my time, I beg leave to enter at once on the matter which has 
brought us together. Sir John Davenne’s presence is also 
material to me.” Sir John’s nostrils curled ominously at the 
announcement. “To put you in possession of the case,” con- 
tinned Antonio, “ I will briefly recapitulate its circumstances 
from the beginning, then submit the course ” 

“ My dear Doctor Antonio, that is quite unnecessary,” inter- 
rupted Doctor Yorke, with polite haste : “ the very satisfactory 
state of your patient bears more than sufficient testimony to the 
masterly course you have pursued.” 

“ Thank you,” said Doctor Antonio ; “ but I have my reasons 
for wishing to proceed in this matter as regularly and methodi- 
cally as possible. Will you oblige me by allowing me to have my 
own way ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” replied Dr. Yorke, prescient of a storm 
in the air. 

“When I first saw the young lady,” began the Italian, “ which 
was immediately after the accident, I found her lying on the 
beach in a deep fainting fit. The usual restoratives proving 
unsuccessful, yet there being no external injury visible to account 
for the protracted swoon, I apprehended a concussion of the 
brain, and I was about making preparations to bleed her, when 
she revived, and by her exclamations directed my attention 
to her right foot. Upon examination I found that she had 
sprained her ankle in the peculiar way I mentioned to you before 
you saw her.” 

Doctor Yorke here nodded most significantly. 

“ I bound up the foot as well as I could with handkerchiets, 
and drove home for a proper bandage. You have seen the dress- 
ing of the foot ; does it meet with your approbation ?” 

“ Most entirely,” said Doctor Yorke; “it would do no discredit 
to a first-rate surgeon, — a rare aptitude, which it would be well 
if more of us physicians possessed.” 


A Pitched Battle. 


87 


Doctor Antonio bowed slightly, and wen^ on. 

“ I then had the lady placed on a sort of litter — the only con 
veyance she could bear, and conveyed to this house, cautioning 
her repeatedly against attempting the slightest movement, for 
fear of unpleasant consequences. Is it your opinion that I was 
too particular ?” 

‘ No, no, my dear fellow,” said Doctor Yorke, his wish grow- 
ing stronger with e^ery detail to prevent' the bursting of the 
storm-cloud ; “ caution is never de trojp, and you are not the man 
to make a fuss about nothing. The foot is a very delicate mem- 
ber,” continued he, turniug to Sir J ohn, “ so full of ligaments, 
tendons, and — a — in short, a monstrous ticklish matter. To 
manage a foot is like walking upon eggs.” 

“Sir John Davenne,” continued Antonio, “being naturally 
anxious to pursue his journey, I felt in duty bound to tell him at 
once, that for forty days at least the lady could not possibly 
travel. Do you think that I overrated the time ?” 

“ I wish I could say ‘ yes,’ — I wish I could,” blurted out the 
English doctor, “ but I can’t, I am forced to agree with you that 
she cannot stir from hence for many a day to come.” 

Sir John heaved a sigh, and the faint sunshine on his face 
vanished. 

“All this,” went on Antonio, “ was taking place on Saturday 
afternoon. Early on Sunday morning I found my patient very 
far from well, restless, thirsty, with parched lips, no sleep, a good 
deal of excitement, and a pulse up to 120. I did not hesitate 
for a moment, and ” 

“ You bled her, of course,” suggested Doctor Yorke. 

Sir John hated his fellow-countryman at 'hat instant. 

“Yes, I bled her,” rejoined Antonio “Would you hare 
done so ?” 

“Necessarily — the symptoms were imperative.” 

“ By six o’clock in the evening the fever had abated, and thij 


86 


Doctor Antonio. 


morning, after a good night’s rest, entirely disappeared. The 
patient, as you say, is going on as satisfactorily as can be 
expected. I have nothing more to add touching the case,” con- 
cluded the Italian. 

“ And I,” said Doctor Yorke, with an animation intended to 
satisfy Doctor Antonio’s legitimate anger, and to bring Sir J ohn 
to a sense of the necessity of some acknowledgment of the ser- 
vices rendered, “ And I have only to say — Go on, and prosper 
as you have begun.” 

I thank you,” said Doctor Antonio, with some reserve. Then 
turning to Sir John, he added, “ I hope you are satisfied, sir.” 
The baronet, rather at a loss what to say, bowed as graciously 
as he could. 

“And now,” resumed Doctor Antonio, rising, “it only re- 
mains for me to say that I resign my patient into abler hands 
than mine, and to wish you good-morning.” 

“You don’t mean what you say, my good fellow,” said Doctor 
Yorke, who felt that it was all over with them ; and so perturbed 
was the good man, that his fork, with a slice of ham on it, 
remained suspended between his plate and mouth, while his 
extended eyes wandered from the baronet to the dark-visaged 
Italian. 

“ Excuse me. Doctor Yorke, but I do fully mean what I say. 
I have reasons that are peremptory with me for acting as I do. 
A medical man, to enable him to fullfil his trust, must have his 
will unfettered, and mine is not ; he must possess the confidence, 
not only of his patient — and in that here I am fortunate, but also 
of those in authority round his patient. Now, this too is want- 
ing. Sir John Davenne has no confidence in me.” 

Doctor Yorke made an attempt to speak. 

“ Grant me one moment more,” said .A ntonio, with a kindly 
smile to him, “ and I have done. Sir John Davenne, I repeat, 
has no confidence in me. I simply point out the fact ; I do not 


A Pitched Battle. 


89 


iJomplam of it. And the best proof of this want of confidence 
is your presence here, the presence of a medical gentleman with* 
dut any previous intimation to me. My course in this state of 
affairs, the only one consistent with what I owe to my patient, 
with what 1 owe to myself, and to the dignity of our profession, 
is to withdraw ; and this I do without any ill-will, on the con- 
trary, in the best possible humor with everybody.” And hastily 
shaking the hand Doctor Yorke had held out to detain him, the 
Italian bowed to Sir John, and walked away, neither humbled 
nor elated, rather sad. Doctor Yorke ran to the balcony, which 
he reached just in time to see his retreating friend disappear 
through the garden-gate. 

“ Fine mess we are in I” muttered Doctor Yorke, as he 
resumed his seat at the table, with the face — such as probably 
he had caused many of his patients to make — of one who had 
just swallowed a very disagreeable medicine. Then ensued an 
awkward silence, broken at last by Doctor Yorke saying, “ It is 
a pity you had not mentioned to Doctor Antonio your intention 
of sending for me.” 

I did not see the necessity,” replied Sir John, curtly ; 
“ Doctor Antonio^s attendance upon my daughter arose from a 
chance, of which he cleverly availed himself, with the view of 
making a good thing of it.” 

Though a worldly man, exclusively bent on making his own 
fortune, and generally disposed, as such, to humor the whims of 
his clients, especially if wealthy, Doctor Yorke had feelings, and 
in spite of all his systematic efforts to keep them down as a nui- 
sance, these feelings, like spirited horses in harness, would now 
and then kick, and plunge, and run away with him, as now when 
he felt that Sir John was an ungrateful old English baronet m- 
deed. So, uttering an “oh I” that sounded like a groan, Doctor 
Yorke took a pinch of snuff, al irato, and said, with some 
warmth, “ Allow me to say, that in this y u are entirely mia- 


90 


Doctor Antonio. 


taken. Doctor Antonio is the last man to be influenced bj 
sordid motives.” 

“ Is he ?” returned the baronet, letting loose at once all the 
spleen heaped up during the last half hour. “ I am glad to hear 
it. I am ready to give him credit for being a pattern of disin- 
terestedness. But what if I am sick of his overbearing manner, 
and will not endure any longer his airs of superiority. Am I not 
at liberty to choose my own physician ? Now, wiU you oblige 
me, sir, with dropping the subject ?” 

“ As you please,” returned the doctor, coolly, and with an 
imperceptible toss of his head, as much as to say, of what use is 
reasoning ? — “ but just allow me a last question in reference to 
it. Is it your opinion, then, that Miss Davenne can do without 
medical attendance ?” 

“I rely upon yours,” replied Sir John. 

“ Certainly,” said Doctor Yorke, with marked hesitation, as 
far as directions by letter, and a call now and then — say once a 
week, can do, I am at your Service.” 

“ Cannot you remain with us,” said Sir John, with a beginning 
of dismay, and undertake my daughter's case ? The remunera- 
tion,” he went on, haughtily — 

“ Do not mention a word of the kind,” interrupted the little 
gentleman, with quickness. “ I wish with all my heart that I 
could stay here, or that you were nearer to Nice, so that I could 
get you out of your difficult predicament. It so happens, how- 
ever, that my staying here, were it only for a day, is a matter 
of absolute impossibility just now. I have a set of sick people at 

Nice whom I cannot leave ; Lord B , with a severe fit of 

gout, a patient of twenty years^ standing — not to be deserted, 

you see ; then there is little Viscount F with the measles, — 

his mother, a poor nervous creature, dotes on him, takes fright 
at everything and nothing, wants to be assured every two hours 
that the child is doing well — keeps me constantly on the trot 


A Pitched Battle. 


91 


1 cannot leave these patients, quite impossible ; yon see your 
self.” • 

Though disappointed beyond expression, Sir J ohn did not foi 
one moment question the validity of the plea, and the two aristo- 
cratic names fell like two drops of oil on the wound inflicted by 
Doctor Yorke’s refusal. Would the baronet have been s(' 
patient, had the people concerned been plain Mr. Smith or 
Mr. Brown? 

“This being the case, can you recommend any good prac- 
titioner near this?” asked Sir John, after a second^s reflection. 
The doctor rubbed his forehead violently, turned his eyes to the 
ground, as if studying a map spread there, then answered, — 

“Why, within a circuit of ten miles, indeed, I may say 
in all the Riviera, there is no one to be compared to Doctor 
Antonio.” 

“ Doctor Antonio again I” broke in the baronet, angrily ; 
“ name any one but him.” 

Doctor Yorke recurred again to his snuff-box for counsel. “ 1 
wish I could,” said he ; “ but men like this — Italian doctors do 
not grow on every bush by the way-side. He might be an 
Englishman : see how he speaks English. Yes, he ought to be 
an Englishman. Certainly his appearance and manners are so 
foreign that I do not wonder at your being startled. I quite 
understand that ; still — the young lady, our first consideration in 
all this, seems satisfied with him.” 

As Doctor Yorke stopped purposely here, as if expecting an 
answer. Sir John was obliged to give a reluctant bow of acquies- 
cence. 

“ Important point,” resumed the doctor ; “ a patient satisfied 
— mind kept unruffled — very capital consideration this. Sir John, 
and well worth the sacrifice of any little first unpleasant impres- 
sions. In short,” wound up the doctor, after taking breath, 
“ the best course, in my opinion, would to make np 


92 


Doctoi Antonio 


matters with this — Italian doctor, and get him to resume hif 
visits.” 

Resume his visits I” exclaimed the Englishman, within a 
hair-breadth of losing his temper, but recollecting in time, that it 
would never do for a man like him to get into a vulgar passion 
ith a man like Doctor Yorke, who could revenge himself by 
showing him up to his patients at Nice. “ Ask him to return 
after what has passed, expose myself to the humiliation of a 
refusal I — lower my dignity with this — a — confounded touchy 
foreigner I” 

“ Come, come,” said Doctor Yorke, in a soothing manner, 

who talks of humiliations, who speaks of your asking any- 
thing? Am I the man to advise Sir John Davenne to any step 
derogatory to his character and position in society ? What if I 
can arrange this business to the satisfaction of all parties, 
while you remain neuter and quiet here ? What if I guarantee 
that the proposal I have suggested shall be accepted with — with 
gratitude ?” 

The word “ gratitude,” no sooner dropped in the heat of argu- 
ment than mentally recalled, did more for the success of Doctor 
Yorke’s diplomacy than all his eloquence, which was not little. 
Sir John felt replaced, as if by magic, on his pedestal or hobby- 
horse ; his own superiority, the honor conferred by his notice, 
were both openly confessed, and the inferiority of his adversary 
was implied, if not acknowledged. Doctor Yorke saw and urged 
his advantage with great nicety of tact. Sir John, after a decent 
show of resistance, relented, and empowered his countryman to 
negotiate Antonio’s return, with but one stipulation : Doctor 
Yorke was to promise that he had taken upon himself to declaru 
on behalf of the Italian, that Doctor Antonio had intended no 
offence. Upon this understanding, the medical plenipotentiary, 
after one hesitating glance at the sun, armed himself with an 
umbrella, and sallied forth in search of Doctor Antonio. 


A Pitched Battle. 


93 


Doctor Antonio had retired to his tent, in other words, had 
taken himself home, where, the door remaining wide open, his 
brother physician found him desperately fencing with some 
imaginary enemy, represented for the time being by one of th 
walls of his sitting-room. “ An excellent way of getting rid of 
one’s spleen,” gasped forth the little man, “ though rather hard 
work in this hot weather.” 

“ Hot weather I” said Antonio, “ but it is most pleasantly 
cool.” 

“ Ouf 1 allow me to close that window, if you please, I am in 
a perfect bath of perspiration. Thank you. Fine mess we are 
in 1” added he to himself, as, after one look at Antonio, he fell 
rather than sat down on a chair. 

** Very good of you to venture so far in the sun, you who 
have such detestation of it,” said Antonio; “ what will you take ? 
a glass of old sherry, or rosolio, or, as you are so hot, some 
warm negus ?” 

“No, no wine — some lemonade, if you please. Ouf 1 these 
chairs are none of — the softest, my good friend,” said Doctor 
Yorke, fanning himself with his handkerchief. 

“ Not comfortable, eh I” said Antonio, smiling. “ How did 
you leave Miss Davenne ?” asked he, squeezing a fresh lemon 
into a glass. 

“ I am not made of stone like you,” answered Doctor Yorke, 
beginning his attack, “so I did not see her before coming 
here. I had not. the heart to go and tell her that you had 
forsaken her.” 

“ Poor little dove I” said Antonio, with a feeling that did 
not proceed from stone, “ as gentle as a lamb, and so sensible 
withal.” 

“ Yes,” said Doctor Yorke, coolly, “ you had time to find all 
that out.” 

** She will regret me, I am sure.” 


94 


Doctor Antonio. 


“No doubt she will,” said the little man, delightedly ; “ and 
that poor Sir John I one cannot help feeling for him also. I 
never in my life saw a man half so puzzled.” 

“ What about ?” asked the Italian, stirring the sugar into the 
glass of lemonade.” 

“None so blind as those who don’t choose to see. You 
abandon him, and I cannot stay. So what’s to become of his 
daughter, sweet, pretty creature ?” 

“You cannot stay I” 

“ Impossible I I must return to Nice this afternoon, I have so 
many ill there.” 

“ Very provoking 1” sighed Antonio, “ very — unfortunate I 
I am very sorry, very sorry on account of the poor young lady. 
As for that stiff, old incarnation of pride, her father, he has only 
got what he deserves. I never saw such a hard, self-conceited, 
stubborn, arrogant, unfeeling old mummy.” 

Doctor Yorke put up his shoulders to shelter himself from this 
pelting of epithets. 

“ If his daughter had been my own sister,” continued Antonio, 
“ I could not have done more for her ; and what has been the 
return I have met with at this worthy gentleman’s hands ? 
Nothing from the first but opposition, distrust, contradiction, 
insolence, and Heaven knows what not.” 

“ You must make allowance for him, my dear fellow,’* inter- 
posed Doctor Yorke, soothingly— “ force of habit — people of 
rank, you know — one of the first families in England.” 

“ Zounds I” exclaimed Antonio, all in a blaze, “ what’s that 
to me ? Let all England worship his rank and his family then , 
I don’t choose to do so ; I am made in God’s image as well as 
he, and won’t be trampled on were he twenty times as rich or as 
great as he is. You English are a proud race — so much the 
better-— I am proud myself, and like people to know their worth. 
But is a noble pride, such as is founded on the consciousness 


A Pitched Battle. 


95 


of one^s value, to exclude a proper regard for the dignity of 
others ?” 

“ Certainly not,” remarked Dr. Yorke, with his hands clasped 
over the respectable bulk of his waistcoat, twirling his thumbs 
first one way, then another. 

“ Methinks a little courtesy,” resumed the Italian, “ such as 
eveL perfect strangers accord to one another, was the least I 
was entitled to, had that man had an atom of sense or feeling, 
considering the relation in whicb we stood to one another. For, 
after all, was he or I the obliged party ? Had he rendered me 
a service, or I him ? I see a carriage overturned ; I hasten to 

give assistance ; I but now that I think of it, perhaps that 

was an intrusion. Y"es, yes, to be sure I Fool that I was, not 
to read it at once in the old man’s face I Yes, he was right j 
what business had I to meddle with the lady’s foot, or to ban- 
. dage it, or to do anything that I did, without first asking per- 
mission of this English potentate ! When you see him again, 
pray offer him my unfeigned apologies, and tell him that I 

shall never sin in that way again. I will be d d if I 

do I Henceforward all English ladies may break their legs and 
arms, and necks, without any fear of my prolfering assistance in 
a hurry.” 

Have you ever seen a skillful angler with a large salmon oh 
his hook, ever watched how he lets the infuriated fish run all the 
line off the reel without the slightest check, nay,, yields rod and 
line to the utmost of his power, encouraging the captive to spend 
his energies, how he waits the momeet when it shall have 
exhausted itself by some vigorous leap, and then, with one dexte- 
rous jerk, throws his prey panting and helpless on the bank ? 
By an identical process did acute Doctor Yorke let kis young 
friend go on uninterruptedly with his philippic, giving his wrath 
plenty of line, and watching all the while for the favorable 
moment to wind up, and land him high and dry 


96 


Doctor Antonio 


“ Bit the young lady,” said Doctor Yorke, seizing the fir? 
pause, “ you don’t mention the young lady. Did she behave ill^ 
too ?” 

Bless her,” said Antonio, in a suddenly softened voice, “ no* 
from the very beginning she was grateful and kind.” 

“ Why, then, in the name of wonder,” cried the little doctoi 
turning sharply round on Antonio, ‘‘ should you visit the sins of 
the father on his unoffending child ?” 

Antonio was silent. 

“ Very well,” said Doctor Yorke ; “I understand your silence. 
The question with me now is (tightening ' the line), who is to 
attend Miss Davenne ? You will not, and I cannot.” 

“No lack of doctors,” replied Antonio, with a grim smile ; 
“ there is one at Ventimiglia, another at San Remo. I have 
already given to Sir John Davenne the names and addresses of 
both.” 

“ Very considerate of you ; but you know very well that 
neither of them will do. Yes ; stare at me as long as you 
please — but you know very well that Miss Davenne’s case 
requires a degree of manual skill that neither of the gentlemen 
you mentioned possess, and an unremitting care and attention 
that only a person on the spot can give. Now, then,” con 
tinned the doctor, giving a great pull, “ what if this innocent 
young lady — such a lovely girl tool — should be lame for life, and 
all for want of proper care ?” 

“ God forbid I” ejaculated Antonio, fervently. 

“ Come, now,” pursued Doctor Yorke, “ say a word, and help 
an old friend out of this scrape, will you ?” 

“ What scrape ?” asked the astonished Italian, who expected 
quite a different request. 

“ Why,” said the Englishman, landing his salmon, “ you must 
feel that, whatever my engagements at Nice may be, — and they 
are really of consequence, even at a certain risk to my practice 


A Pitched Battle. 


91 


1 cannot decently leave father and daughter in such a dilemma, 
alone in a strange land.” 

“ Am I to understand,” inquired Antonio, after a short silence, 
** that you come from Sir John ?” 

“Of course I do,” was the answer. 

“ And that Sir John is willing ” 

“Willing is not the word,” interrupted the delighted little 
gentleman ; “ happy, my dear sir, happy to receive you back on 
your own terms. You are to be absolute monarch of the sick- 
room.” 

“ Well, let it be so,” said Antonio, vanquished. “ I will 
return, and again take upon myself the care of his daughter ; but 
bear in mind, that if I do so, it is for your sake and that of the 
young lady.” 

“ Thank you, thank you,” said Doctor Yorke, with real feel 
ing ; “you are a noble fellow, and worth a dozen Sir Johns. 
Thank you,” he repeated again, cordially shaking Antonio’s two 
hands. The Italian put on his hat, the very conical hat that 
had so scared and shocked Sir John at their first meeting, and 
the two doctors, side by side, directed their steps towards the 
Osteria dd Mattom. Doctor Yorke avoided the mention of the 
“no offence” declaration, which, according to Sir John’s instruc- 
tions, was to be the sine qua non preliminary of all negotiation 
He did not choose to risk the success of his diplomacy by any 
such complication. He knew Antonio’s warm and generouji 
nature too well not to be certain that any hint on the subject 
from the baronet would be met more than half-way by the Italian 
and responded to in a kindly spirit. 

Sir John had all this time been pacing to and fro the lobby 
in a state of considerable perplexity, every now and then step 
ping out into the balcony, which formed the limit of his peram 
bulation on one side, to look up the road to Bordighera. During 
one of these halts the baronet descried the two gentlemen coming 

5 


98 


Doctor Antonio. 


down the hill, arm in arm — a sight which, far from seeming 
palatable, made his nostrils suddenly contract, as though eyery 
orange and lemon tree perfuming the air in the garden, exhaled 
baneful and nauseous vapors. However, by the time the two 
gentlemen entered the room there was no indication left of con- 
tending feelings on Sir John^s smooth brow, and the reception h« 
gave to both his visitors proved most gracious. He even conde- 
scended to address to Doctor Antonio a few polite but rather 
formal words, expressive of his regret for the misunderstanding 
that had taken place, and which elicited from the Italian a 
declaration identical in substance, but far more satisfactory in 
tone. Doctor Yorke, whose anxiety during this transaction 
betrayed itself by sundry desperate appeals to his snuff-box, 
drew an enormous breath at last, and said inwardly — “ Fine 
mess Pm out of,” “ And now,” said Sir John, turning to Doc- 
tor Yorke, “it only remains for me to tender thanks, and, by 
releasing you at once, offer the best amends in my power for 
trespassing so long on your valuable time. Shall I order horses 
to the carriage at once ?” The alacrity with which the offer 
was accepted showed how welcome it was. “Well, then, gen- 
tlemen,” pursued the baronet, “I must leave you to entertain 
one another, as I shall take this opportunity of sending some 
letters on business to Nice ;” and, glad of an excuse to escape, 
he hurried from the room. 

Sir John made good use of the time it took to procure horses; 
he wrote letter upon letter to his son Aubrey ; addressed to the 

house in Square, to his bankers, to his man of business in 

London, and to his head man in the country ^airections being 
given to the tliree last named to forward all his letters and 
papers to him at Bordighera), added to which he penned a long 
list of articles which his courier was desired to forward without 
delay to the Osteria. John was also intrusted with a score of 
verbal instructions, all of which, letters, liste, instructions, and 


\ Pitched Battle. 


directions, implied that Sir John had made up his nind to a pro- 
tracted stay in his present disagreeable quarters. It was so in 
fact ; Sir John had at last realized his situation, and though 
much against the grain, sulkily submitted to it^ necessities 
This, and this alone, was the result of the experience of the 
last few hours. Pique is a bad counsellor, and f'*w men can 
afford to be just under the smart of a double defeat. We regret 
to say it, for in spite of his prejudices we confess tc a foible for 
Lucy’s father, but truth must be told, and the truth Is, that the 
leaven of resentment was fermenting in Sir John’s brsa«t as fast 
as ever. 

Sir John insisted on accompanying Doctor Yoike to the 
carriage, and seeing with his own eyes that everything was as it 
ought to be. This was the pretext which enabled him to lay on 
the seat, by Doctor Yorke’s side, a folded paper, that the doctoi 
chose not to see at the moment, but which, as soon as the 
carriage door had been banged to by John, he careftelly unfolded 
and examined, and, with manifest marks of satisfaction, deposited 
In his pocket-book. What with mental worry and bodily exer- 
tion, the English physician was so worn out, that after once 
more exclaiming, “ Fine mess I have been in?” he stretched ‘*un 
self at length, and fell so soundly asleep that he nev^r awok<^ 
tibe carriage stopped at his own door at Nice. 


LofC. 


100 


Dcxitor Antonio. 


Chapter VI. 

Little Occupations. 

I HAVE a thousand questions to ask you/* said Lucy, whei 
Antonio made his appearance the next morning. 

“ Have you ?” replied the Italian, good-humoredly ; “ very 
well, I am ready. You will be sooner tired of asking than I of 
answering. But first, will you tell me how you are, and allow 
me to feel your pulse ?” 

The medical inquiries being properly satisfied, “Now,” said 
Lucy, “ to begin, let me tell you that I wish to give Prospero 
some money. How much shall I send him ?” 

“ Let me see,” said Antonio, pondering. “ Supposing th^t 
Prospero is unable to work for a fortnight, and it is more likely 
than not, fifteen days^ work at thirty sous a day, his usual wages 
eome to twenty-two francs, fifty centime. If you send him five 
and-twentt francs there will be a little over to procure some 
better food during his recovery.** 

Lucy desired Hutchins to bring her her purse. Be it remarked 
once for all, that Hutchins was always at hand during the 
Italian’s visits, cither working by the side of her young mistress, 
or at a little table in her own room facing the open door 
between them. Lucy handed some money to the doctor. 

“ Fifty francs I” said he, “ that is double the sum I named.” 


Little Occupations 101 

*‘The additional five-and-twenty francs,” observed Lucy, ■ will 
pay for Prospero’s medicines.” 

“ Prospero has neither doctor nor medicines to pay for. I am 
the doctor of the parish, and the parish pays me to attend the 
poor.” 

“But who provides them with medicines ?” 

“ Myself. I have plenty of which I am only too glad to be 
rid. We must be very careful how we relieve the poor. A 
larger gift than positively necessary only encourages idleness, 
and is a doing of evil instead of good.” 

“ ThaPs just what papa always says,” replied Lucy. “ I 
shall not insist on having my own way this time. Doctor 
Antonio, if you promise me that, should Prospero require more 
help, or should you hear of any one in distress, you will let me 
know.” 

“ Indeed, I am not sure, that I shall make any promise of the 
kind,” said Antonio, with a smile that softened the words; “ had 
you your own way, as you call it, I fear that the poor but inde- 
pendent people of this country would be spoiled before long. 
Are your questions already at an end ?” 

“ Scarcely begun. Tell me next, why, yesterday, you brought 
that odious English doctor to see me ?” 

“ Odious I in what way odious ?” asked Antonio, in his turn, 
and with surprise in his tone. 

“ Odious, because he is so sweet and oily. I hate honey- 
tongued people. I will have no other doctor but you, so you 
need not bring any one to see me.” 

“ Thank you for the preference, which, if I guess right, I owe 
to my uncourtly manner. There is no fear of Doctor Yorke 
starting a competition with me : he is quietly at home in Nice 
by this time.” 

“ 1 hope he will stay there then. But why did he oome at 
all ?” said Lucy, resolutely. 


102 


Doctor A^itonia 


“ He came at my request, as he told you. He clianced tc 
pay me a visit on his way back to Nice, and I was glad to 
consult him about your foot. Now, as this could not be dene 
without his examining it, I brought him to you. Independently 
df the weight I attach to his opinion, I thought also that, should 
our views in the case coincide, as I hoped, his advice would give 
mine an additional authority with Sir John.” 

“ Why ?” asked Lucy, as pertinacious as a child. 

“ It seems very natural to me, does it not to you, that an 
Englishman should have more confidence in an Englishman than 
a foreign physician ?” 

“ Have you and papa disagreed, then ?” 

“ Disagreed I no. Sir John not being a doctor, could not be 
expected to view certain points as I did — that is all.” 

** And pray,” insisted Lucy, “what were those points ?” 

** You are cross-examining me, I believe,” said Doctor Antonio, 
laughing. 

“ Yes, I am,” resumed Lucy, gravely, “ but not out of idle 
curiosity, as I dare say you think. I do not know exactly 
what it is that makes me suspect there has been some misunder- 
standing between you and papa about me, but I do suspect it ;” 
and she looked into Antonio’s face ; “ and I want to know 
all about it, that I may do what I can to smooth it away.” 

“ You are very good, but there’s no occasion now for any 
mediation. Thanks to that ‘odious’ Doctor Yorke,” said he, 
smiling, “ Sir John has been made to see the necessity of a more 
prolonged stay in this poor place than he might have expected 
or wished. Now you know the point on which we were at 
variance.” 

“ Ah 1 that is why papa was so silent and thoughtful all last 
evening. Shall we be able to leave this by the end of this 
month?' 

** I fear not.” 


Little Occupations. 


108 


“ How provoking I” exclaimed Lucy. 

“ Are you, then, also, so anxious to leave Italy 

“ Oh, no I I was only thinking of papa. Shall we be able t* 
go away in a month from this day 

“ Yes, I think so, within a month or thereabouts.” 

“ A month, I am afraid, will seem very long to papa. He ii 
so dull here, with not even a horse to ride, he who used to take 
his ride every morning. Is there any saddle-horse to be hired in 
this neighborhood ?” 

“ Not the least chance of it.” 

“ How provoking !” exclaimed Lucy again. “ And when shall 
I be allowed to get up ?” 

“ I am sorry that I cannot answer that question. Best put b 
ad referendum, as they say in the Swiss Diet.” 

Sine die, you mean,” said Lucy ; “your Latin may be clas- 
sical, but it is little pleasant.” 

“ Cannot you make an effort, and fancy for a while that yori 
have no feet at all ?” said Antonio, gravely. Lucy had a 
great mind to laugh, but said instead that it was a shame, and 
all nonsense, and that she had never seen such a cross doctor in 
her life ; for Lucy, though nearly twenty, had preserved much 
of the freshness, the charm, and even the pouting ways of 
childhood. 

“ I assure you,” said the Italian, in answer to this boutade^ 
“ that I shall not keep you in bed an hour longer than indis- 
pensable.” 

“ Very much obliged to you,” said Lucy, pettishly. 

The doctor did not speak. 

“Do you know. Doctor Antonio,” continued Lucy, after • 
while, “ that I long to get up to see again that little sunshiny 
hill that was right before us, just when we were overturned ? i 
should like to see it quietly, not passing by at full gallop.” 

“ You mean the cape of Bordighera ?” said Antonie. 


104 


Doctor Antonio. 


* Yes, I suppose so. I had been half asleep, when papa, call- 
ing to the postilion, startled me, and on opening my eyes, 1 had 
a glimpse of something so green, so fresh, so beautiful ; only 
a glimpse, but comprehensive of such loveliness, that the recollec- 
tion haunts me like the vision of a fairy land.” 

“ Do not let your fancy have too much play,” was the answer, 

or you will lose the benefits of reality.” 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that reality, my dear young lady, be it ever so charm- 
ing, rarely keeps pace with the promises of imagination.” 

I don^t know much about the charms of fancy,” said Lucy, 

but I do know that reality is often disagreeable.” 

“As when one is obliged to keep in bed,” said the doctor, 
slyly. 

“ Exactly so. But tell me, pray, did I imagine or really see 
big palm-trees on the hill of Bordighera ?” 

“ You saw them. Bordighera is famous for its palm-trees.” 

Lucy having apparently exhausted her stock of queries, 
Antonio was taking leave of her, when she detained him, 
saying, “ One more question, and then you may go ; it is 
about Speranza. She interests me very much ; at times she 
looks so very unhappy. Do you know what is the matter with 
her?” 

“ Speranza has trials of her own,” said Antonio : “ hers is a 
simple but affecting story, which would lose all its effect if told 
by me. I am glad that you feel an interest in that girl. There 
k much primitive nobility in her nature. Do not disdain to seek 
her acquaintance, and try to win her confidence. The moral 
world, dear lady, is just like the physical one. We have only to 
stoop to find in the humble spheres much to notice and sympa- 
thize with ” 

The doctor remarked, not without some surprise, that from 
that day Miss Davenne never complained again of having to 


Little Occupations. 105 

rftay in bed, or so much as hinted at the possibility of getting 
ap. 

On the morrow Lucy was permitted to read in moderation, and 
Doctor Antonio brought her a volume of Shakspeare, and Man* 
EonPs Tromessi Sposi In a day or two she was allowed to sit up 
in bed. According to the doctor’s directions, the bed was taken 
out of its corner and moved near to the window, which, the 
Osteria standing on rising ground, commanded a full view of the 
Mediterranean. 

“ Have you ever lived by the sea inquired the doctor, 

“ Never. When I was sent to Brighton for sea-bathing, 
the doctors forbade my being in any of the houses near the 
beach.” 

“ So much the better,” answered Antonio; “our sea, then, will 
have all the charms of novelty for you. It is a sight always 
new, a book that never tires. It will afford you unceasing occu- 
pation and matter for wonder, to watch the changeableness and 
richness of its colors, varying from the pure white of snow to the 
deep black of ink. Then ask it the secret of its thousand sounds, 
from the low plaintive murmur, so like a sigh or a kiss, to the 
thunderlike roaring that makes the earth quake. All poets have 
sung of the sea, but none more powerfully than the Hebrew king.” 
And taking up an English Bible that was lying on the table near 
Lucy, he sought out in the Psalms, and read these verses : — 
“ ‘ They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business 
in great waters ; these see the works of the Lord, and His 
wonders in the deep. For He commandeth, and raiseth the 
stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount 
up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths : their 
soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and 
stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.’ No 
matching that, Miss Davenne, for simphcity, truth, and graiv 
deu?.” 


6 * 


106 


Doctor Antonio. 


Lucj looked and listened to him as certainly sne had nevei 
listened to or looked at any one before ; then she said, “ Ho^' 
strange I yon seem to know the Bible well I” 

“ And does that astonish you ?” 

Yes; I thought that Roman Catholics never read the Bible ” 

That is a common error with Protestants. If you were 
acquainted with our church services, you would be aware that 
portions of the Scriptures form their chief part, and are read and 
chanted daily in our churches, both morning and evening ; in 
Latin, it is true, but a translation is to be found in all our prayer- 
books. In fact, the whole Bible, translated into Italian, is open 
to all readers, with only two conditions : first, that it be the 
translation of the Scriptures commonly called the Vulgate, col- 
lated and completed by St. Jerome ; and, secondly, that the 
Latin text be printed opposite the Itahan. If the Bible is not so 
generally diffused in Italy as might be wished, I think the fact 
depends partly upon the want of popular instruction, and chiefly 
upon the little encouragement given by the clergy to its perusal. 
However, I can assure you, that many among the educated class 
in Italy know the Bible thoroughly, and read it both in the 
authorized and unauthorized translation.” 

Lucy was grateful, and enjoyed both the reading of her books 
and the contemplation of the sea, as he had hoped she would ; 
she even gave the doctor a full and vivid description of a charge 
of cavalry, in which the waves, furiously dashing and breaking 
against each other, and plunging and rearing like maddened 
horses, were the actors. But by degrees, both the sea and her 
reading lost some of their power to interest ; and Antonio, who 
watched his patient with a solicitude that had something 
motherly in it, became aware that it was time to find her some 
new occupation. First, he proposed that she should read to him 
a chapter of Manzoni every day ; then he was sure it would 
improve his accent, if she could bear to hear him read a scene or 


Little Occupations. 


107 


two from Shakspeare. With these readings (ame now and then 
those little laughs, tinkling hke silver bells, that sounded so 
sweet in Antonio’s ears, and in which, though at the expense of 
his not faultless pronunciation, he joined so heartily. 

His visits were now very frequent — he called three or four 
times a day ; indeed, every moment he could spare from hia 
duties found him by the couch of the fair invalid. And he 
rarely came empty-handed, bringing almost always something 
with him that he thought would amuse or interest her. It was 
at first an album of views and costumes of Sicily, a small colle«- 
tion of ancient coins, a few specimens of lava — all his scanty 
stock of curiosities. This exhausted, it was a flower, a rare 
plant, a curious insect ; a scarabceus in an armor of jet, a green 
locust with a head like a horse, a butterfly with wings of gold 
and silver, or one of those canary-colored hairy caterpillars, with 
regular black stripes round its body. Houi’S went by unnoticed, 
while the doctor explained to her, in clear and brief sentences, 
their habits and peculiarities, and even the use of many of them. 

That little creature, whose shining green coat you admire so 
much,” he would say, “ will sadly fall in your estimation, I am 
afraid, when you know its name, and the use that is made of it. 
Do you not guess now what it is ?” 

"No,” rephed Lucy, “ I do not think I ever saw one before, 
at least I never noticed it.” 

“ That is a specimen of the genus cantharides, or Spanish fly, 
of which blisters are made, and a sly wee thing it is, for as soon 
as you touch it, it emits a nauseous smell, and counterfeits death. 
Is it not wonderful how every living being, however small or 
ngly, has its special purpose, and is provided with some means 
of self-defence? Now, look at this many-legged thing which 
runs so nimbly about ; see, it rolls itself up into a ball. That is 
its defence against impending danger. This slow, ill-favored 
little fellow, whom you scarcely deign to notice in the bright 


108 


Doctor Antonio. 


day-light, has often, I dare say, attracted your admiration in an 
eyening walk.” 

“ Is that the glow-worm, then ?” asked Lucy. 

“ Yes ; he also makes believe that he is dead when his liberty 
is about to be interfered with,' though he is extremely tenacious 
of life. I once made an experiment with one of them. He bore 
first the imprisonment of a week under a glass, and afterwards a 
three hours’ stay at the bottom of a vase full of water, and, 
nevertheless, came out of it alive, so I thought it but fair to set 
him free.” 

Doctor Antonio succeeded perfectly in his object, to make 
the hours of her confinement less long and dreary for Lucy. 
She was never tired of asking questions, which Antonio answered 
with a good humor, highly creditable to his patience as an 
instructor. 

One day, after just such another conversation, Lucy lay back 
as if in deep thought, which Doctor Antonio, by his own silence, 
seemed to respect. What was Lucy thinking of ? or was she 
thinking at all? No, she was enjoying one of those rare 
moments when the mere sense of existence is happiness ; when 
the blue sky, the rippling sea, the soft air all seem bluer^ 
brighter, sweeter, than ever known before. Doctor Antonio’s 
eyes, from the sea on which they had been fixed, wandered to, 
and settled on the thoughtful countenance of his companion. A 
moment more, and she looked at him. “ Have I wearied you ?’^ 
he asked. 

“ Oh, no 1” said Lucy, in a very reassuring manner. 

During the question and answer, the evening breeze came 
floating by, laden with the rich odor of the orange and lemon 
trees, that grew in the plot of ground below the window. “ What 
a delicious fragrance 1” exclaimed Lucy. 

Delicious, indeed,” echoed Antonio. ‘^Are you fond of 
flowers 


Little Occupations. 


109 


“Very, very fond,” said she. “I had plenty of them at 
Davenne, but none that ever smelt half so sweet as the plants in 
this garden.” 

“ If I were a young lady,” said Antonio, “ I am sure that a 
garden would be one of my chief amusements.” 

“ So you think, because you are a man,” said Lucy ; “ you do 
not know anything about young ladies, you have no idea how 
much they are made to learn — to find out afterwards, as I have 
done,” added she, slightly coloring, “ that they know nothing.” 

“ As to that,” answered Antonio, laughing, “ I am sure most 
young men can say as much for themselves.” 

There was another moment of silence, then Lucy returned to 
the point from which she had started. “ I always fancy,” said 
she, “ that the orange flower smells sweetest in the evening.” 

It is not fancy,” replied the doctor ; “ orange and all 
strongly-scented flowers do really give out more perfume towards 
the close of day, and during the first hours after sundown. 
There are even some, like the Indian jessamine, which, scentless 
in the day, are very sweet at night.” 

“ Then what does make flowers smell, do you know ?” 

“ I will show you to-morrow,” he said, “it is too late this 
evening. I greatly rejoice,” he went on kindly, “at the inte- 
rest you take in these subjects, it helps you well through this 
wearisome confinement. It is incredible, is it not, what a rich 
mine for observation and wonder we may find, if we choose, close 
to us, in an insect, a plant, even a blade of grass ?” 

The color rose in Lucy’s face as the Italian spoke, and holding 
out her hand, she said, “ How much I owe you I” Antonio 
laughed outright at the strange notion, and bid good-bye in 
great haste. Left to herself, she gazed long out upon the sea, 
the distant tremulous lines of which, illumined, during the last 
minutes of Antonio’s visit, by the golden glories of the sky, were 
fast vanishing in the dying light of the horizon ; and as sh« 


110 


Deleter Antonio. 


watched, she sevmed to listen, as though the inarticulate Ian* 
guage of that immense creation, soft as a sigh this evening, wai 
answering the siltfnt questionings of her heart. Sky, and sea, 
and garden, had all lost color, motion, and form, still Lucy 
remained looking into the darkness. 

‘‘Why, Lucy, my darling,” exclaimed Sir John, opening 
the door, with a light in his hand, “all in the dark, and 
alone I” 

“Yes, papa, after Doctor Antonio went away, I sent poor 
Hutchins to take a walk.” 

Sir John advanced close to the bed, still holding the light. 
“ See, Lucy, I have taken quite a fancy to this odd-shaped lamp. 
The woman of the house told John that they were to be had at 
Genoa, in silver. I must have some to take home with us ;” 
and Sir John showed Lucy the object of his admiration, one of 
the common lamps used throughout Italy — a brass globe for the 
oil, with three beaks on a very slender shaft, that, passing 
through the centre, was terminated at the top in a handle, from 
under which hung the chain, that held an extinguisher, and a pin 
for quickening the light.” 

“ It is very pretty, papa,” Sir John^s eyes fell on his daugh- 
ter’s face, as she turned it towards the lamp, and he exclaimed, 
“ How well you look to-night, Lucy 1 I have not heard you 
cough to-day.” 

“ Oh, I have lost my cough for these last two days,” answered 
Lucy ; “ the air of this place does me so much good.” 

“ I think it does,” observed the father, in a pleased manner ; 
“ we must not have too much of a good thing, however,” added 
he, closing the window. 

On the following morning. Doctor Antonio brought Lucy a 
sprig of orange flowers, its pure white blossoms nestling among 
the glossy dark green leaves. “ Here, I present you,” he said, 
“ with what may be called the crown of our shores.” 


Little Occupations. 


Ill 


“ You beautiful thing 1” apostrophized Lucy, as he gave it 
into her hand ; then inhaling the odor eagerly, “Now, where 
does such a fragrance come from ?” 

Antonio detached from the flower one of its thick white petals, 
and bade her hold it up between her and the light. “ Do you 
see those transparent dots in its texture ?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Now, then,” he added, “ you see where the smell comes 
from. Each of these diaphanous dots is a diminutive essence- 
bottle ; it holds a particle of the essential oil, which perfumes 
the flower, as you might scent your wardrobe with a cassolette of 
oMar of roses.” 

“ How strange 1” cried the delighted girl ; “ how glad I am 
to know this I” 

He then cut a bit of the rind of an orange, and showed her 
rhat it was full of the same kind of little vessels for oil. “ So 
ft is,” said Lucy ; “ and are all flowers scented in the same 
>vay ?” 

“Yes, and many green leaves ; those of the myrtle, for 
Instance, have receptacles of the same sort.” 

“ I always thought,” said Lucy, “ that the smell was in these 
small powder puffs ;” and she pointed to the anthers. 

“ They have quite a different destination,” answered he ; and 
he told her the names and uses of the difierent parts of the 
flower. “ I shall never remember all that,” said Lucy, with a 
sad shake of her head. 

“ I will write them down for you, if you really wish to remem- 
ber them,” said Antonio. 

“ Oh do. Doctor Antonio, and I will repeat my lesson to you 
to-morrow.” The bright animation of the fair speaker’s counte- 
nance made Antonio say, “ You have a taste for botany, you 

see.” 

“ Botany 1” exclaimed Lucy, “ oh, no I I cannot bear the 


112 


Doctor Antonio. 


rery name of botany and its hard scientific words ; but 1 like t<j 
hear you talk of flowers.” 

Well,” said Antonio, smiling, “ we will busy ourselres about 
flowers, and only about your favorite flowers. I suppose you 
will not object if I bring you some more rare than usual, to read 
ftbout them, because I warn you my knowledge on the subject 
does not extend very far.” 

“ Far enough to tell me all I wish to know,” said Lucy ; “ but 
if you get tired of teaching me, then I suppose I must have oni 
of your terrible wise books.” 

From that day flowers became Miss Davenne’s favorite occupa- 
tion, and Antonio’s most useful auxiliaries in his task of kindness. 
Delightful to her were those long conversations, in which he told 
her Nature’s mysterious processes, and the all- wise distribution 
of qualities allotted to the vegetable in relation to the animal 
creation, the similitude and dissimilitude existing between the two 
kingdoms, and the link connecting them into one greaf whole. 

Antonio happened to call one afternoon during a violent . 
shower. “ See,” said he, pushing Lucy’s bed nearer to the win- 
dow, that she might have a peep of the trees at the further end 
of the garden, “ see what a banquet for trees and plants, how 
the leaves stand up and drink every drop that falls I” 

“ How odd it is,” said Lucy, “ to hear you talk of plants as if 
they were living beings, breathing, drinking, and — what next ? — 
eating, perhaps,” and she laughed. 

** Why not ?” observed Antonio, with one of his quiet half 
sarcastic smiles. “ It seems that of all the flowers that adorn 
the earth, you wish to keep for young ladies the exclusive privi- 
lege of eating oysters and underdone beefsteaks. But let me tell 
you that some of your rivals of the garden actually do consume 
solid food.” 

“ O Doctor Antonio 1” was the laughing exclamation, “ whal 
do you mean ?” 


Little Occupations. 


113 


** 1 am in earnest,” he said. “ Th« Dionoea, commculy called 
Venus^s fly-trap,’ has leaves armed with small hairy spines. 
When an insect touches the leaf, the leaf closes, clenching its 
bristles together like locked fingers, holds fast its prey, and 
never opens until the insect has wasted away. More than that, 
the experiment has been tried of feeding the Dioncea with small 
bits of raw meat.” 

“ Raw meat I” repeated the young lady with disgust. 

** Yes, indeed, raw meat I and the leaves closed in the same 
way, and when they opened again the meat was gone — eaten 
up !” 

“ Horrid Dionoea 1” cried Lucy, “ I will never have another 
in my garden. A flower to eat raw meat 1 It might as well be 
a cannibal.” 

Doctor Antonio’s aim had been at first not that of instructing 
but simply of providing his bedridden young patient with such 
little diversions as he could place within her reach. Her quick 
perception of his meaning, and eagerness to learn, ended, how- 
ever, by drawing him on farther than he had thought of, and at 
last he found himself regularly giving her lessons in botany, and 
frequently writing down a resume of their conversations for the 
grateful pupil. In this way Lucy soon commanded a httle stock 
of knowledge on botany, acquired without effort, and almost 
unconsciously. So when the doctor put one of the wise looking 
books before her, she found that much of its contents was already 
familiar to her, and when he told her to try and classify such 
and such plant by herself, and she succeeded it would have 
been hard to say which was the greater, her gratification or 
wonder. And Lucy looked up to her instructor as a marvellous 
lamp of science, and probably thoaght him the cleverest man in 
the world. 

One morning, Lucy heard, to her infinite surprise, some oni 
■mging to the guitar in Hutchins’ room. It must be Doctor 


114 


Doctor Antonio 


Antouio, it could be no one else. Bravo I” she cried ; “ *vil3 
not the mysterious troubadour show his face 

“ Now, Miss Davenne,” said Antonio, entering the room, a 
guitar slung across his shoulders, “ you will never again think 
me deficient in gallantry.” She looked very much astonished. 
“ Oh I do not deny it, you know you have been expecting a 
serenade every evening past. It would be too bad that a young 
lady in Italy should neither meet with banditti nor be serenaded. 
Now, you have had a serenade, and one in broad daylight, too, 
which adds to its zest.” 

“ Confess, Doctor Antonio, that you think young ladies very 
foolish creatures,” said Lucy, laughingly. 

“ Why so I” said he, laughing also. 

Because you suppose they must be always expecting some- 
thing silly or extravagant, as if they were so different from 
you.” 

“By no means. Are there not such things as banditti and 
serenades, and is not the love of adventure natural to youth ? 
For my part, when I was your age, I would have given any- 
thing for a moving accident by flood or field, and Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe^s romances are nothing compared to those I created in my 
own fancy.” 

“ What I you who look so grave I” 

“ Yes, indeed, my own sedate self. But in the meantime you 
gay nothing of my song.” 

“ I was just going to tell you how much I liked it, it is so 
simple and full of pathos.” 

“ That’s right, it is one of my favorite Sicilian airs. I have 
csome to-day with the intention of teaching it to you.” 

“ But I cannot play the guitar.” 

But you can learn ; no time so good as the present Are 
yon in the humor to take your first lesson now ?” 

Lucy was aU impatience to begin. Antonio showed her hov 


Little Occupations, 


115 


to hold the instrument, and the motion of the lingers on the one 
hand on the frets, and of the other on the stria jjs After the 
lesson, at LuOy’s request, he finished the song he had only begun, 
and a prettv ■)ne it was, and well she liked it. 


116 


Doctor Antonio. 


Chapter VII 

Bits of Information. 

** Will you allow me,” said Lucy, one evening, * to ask yoi t 
question ?” 

“ A mighty ticklish one, I dare say,” replied Antonio, “ if it 
needs so ceremonious a preamble.” 

“ The question relates to you, Doctor Antonio, and I do not 
quite feel as if I ought to ask it.” 

“ Never mind,” said Antonio, “ I here give you full permission 
to put whatever questions you please, whether they concern me 
or not.” 

“ Thank you. I wish to know, then, how a superior man like 
you ” 

Antonio fell to laughing outright. 

“ Ah I very well,” said Lucy, stopping short, you may laugh 
as much as you please, but you are a superior man, you know 
you are.” 

“ If a decent average of education and good breeding consti- 
tute what you are pleased to call a superior man, then 1 may be 
proud of my country indeed.” 

“ Do you mean to say that there are many like you in your 
country ?” 

** Are you serious ?” asked Antonio. “You look upon Italy, 
then, as a kingdom of the blind, where the one-eyed is king 


Bits of Information. 


117 


Believe me, mj dear lady, you may find many far superior to me, 
who both live comparatively useless, and die unknown You 
have no idea,” pursued he, “ what an amount of intelligence, 
strength, and noble aspirations wastes away, for want of space 
and air, in this huge pneumatic machine, marked on the map of 
Europe as Italy.” 

A cloud of unspeakable sadness overshadowed his usually 
serene countenance. Lucy felt for him, and was silent. 

“Well,” said Antonio, with a graceful moiement of the head 
to one side, as if shaking off some weight, “ will you go on ? 
You were wondering how such a superior man like me — did you 
mean, could condescend to play the guitar ?” 

“ Oh, no, no I — could live in a small country village like this, 
among rude peasants ” 

“ Rude peasants I” repeated the Italian ; “I beg your pardon 
for again interrupting you, but I cannot bear to hear the mildest 
race on earth so grossly misrepresented. Call them ignorant, 
superstitious, anything but rude. What caused you to think 
them so ?” 

“ Why,” said Lucy, a little abashed, “ papa told me that 
more than once he has been stopped in his walks, and rudely 
spoken to.” 

“ That Sir John, who does not know their language, should be 
annoyed at being addressed by the country people, I can under- 
stand ; but how he can mistake their cordiality for disrespect, 
and accuse them of rudeness, that, I confess, passes my compre- 
hension.” 

“ Still, Doctor Antonio, you have not answered my question." 

“ You consider my lot, then, as a mean one ?” 

“ Not mean, but unworthy of you.” 

“ What if I Jiave no choice ?” said Antonio. 

“ But you know that such is not the case,” retorted Lucy, 
with some warmth ; “ you know that you \ave only to speak 


118 


Doctor Antonie. 


on« word to change your present position for one far snp® 
nor.*' 

“ I see how it is/* replied Antonio, smiling ; “ you have been 
making friends with Speranza, and she has told you fairy tales 
of the grandeur that awaits my acceptance. Let me warn you 
against such suspicious channels of information as Speranza and 
her mother, in all that relates to me.** 

“Yet you told me that Speranza was a sensible person.’* 

“ So she is, and so is her mother ; but their imagination gets 
the better of their sense whenever I am concerned. I am their 
hobby-horse, and were they told that a throne was in store for 
me somewhere, they could believe it.** 

“ If they are attached to you, and I know they are — they have 
good reasons for being so.** 

“ Imaginary, or at least, highly exaggerated reasons. Women, 
I am told, are apt to run into extremes. Nothing will ever 
put it out of Rosa’s head that I saved her daughter’s life in her 
last illness, which is not the fact ; and as to Speranza, she thinks 
she owes me an enormous debt of gratitude, for some efforts 
I made in a matter she had much at heart, efforts, I must say, 
which utterly failed.” 

“ How ingenious you are in trying to undervalue yourself 1” 

“ Not in the least. Miss Davenne ; I beg you to believe that I 
have a tolerably good opinion of myself, but I cannot bear to be 
overrated. Should you like to know in what consisted those 
great prospects boasted of by Speranza ?” 

“ To be sure I should,” said Lucy. 

“ They will cut a sorry figure when reduced to their natural 
proportions. Last year — but to be clearer, perhaps, I had better 
tell you first what chain of circumstances brought me to this 
plaoe.” 4 

“ Pray do so,” said Lucy, eagerly. 

“ It is a story for which few words will suffice. That a uaWa 


Bits of Information, 


119 


of Sicily, or of any part of this peninsula, who asked but to liye 
and die in his home, should have been suddenly and forcibly casi 
out from it, a flaming sword behind, and all the wide woidd befori 
him, is a matter of too common occurrence in this land of 
anomalies, to require any explanation. To think, or only to b« 
Buspected of thinking with liberality, is enough to expose any 
Italian to such a chance. But what must seem, and is in fact 
more strange, considering the close partnership in oppression, into 
which all the governments of Italy have entered, is how a man , 
driven out of Sicily, could find a refuge, and be tolerated in the 
Sardinian States. [The reader is requested to remember that 
Doctor Antonio is speaking in 1840.] Now this is how it hap- 
pened. The day that the soil of Catania became too hot for me 
— it is unnecessary for our present purpose to enter into the 
cause, political, of course, that made it so — that day, I was for- 
tunate enough to obtain a passage on board a Genoese merchant 
vessel going to Genoa. When we arrived there my passport 
was demanded, and as naturally I had none, I was refused per- 
mission to land. Fortunately my uncle — the English officer 
whom I already mentioned to you as the husband of my mother’s 
eldest sister — when I took leave of him, had had the lucky 
thought of giving me a letter of introduction to an old friend 
and comrade of his, the British Consul at Genoa. 1 sent my 
letter to that gentleman, and through his kind offices, I obtained 
leave not only to land, but to remain in the town a week. I was 
sorely at a loss, as you may imagine, what to do, and where to 
go at the expiration of that time, when one morning I saw 8 
paragraph in the local official paper that put an end to my in’e 
solution. I ought to have told you that at the time I allude tf 
the year 1837, the Asiatic cholera was raging throughout tk - 
Riviera The paragraph I read was an address to medical 
In general, especially to young physicians, urging them to 
themselves at the disposal of the Proto Medicato, a sort -r ''<:ard 


120 


Doctor Antonio. 


of public health, by whom this appeal was issued. Some peco* 
niary em Dlument was offered to those who should volunteer theii 
services. A motive of humanity prompted me to do so, and a 
more selfish motive decided me. I felt as though a plank had 
been thrown to me, on which, if I could place my foot, I should 
be saved from complete shipwreck ; fo^ to have left Italy would 
have bpen utter despair to me. If successful I should be sure of 
gaining my bread honestly, and at no charge to my family. So 
I went to the Board of Health, and stated, as was the fact, that 
I had some experience in the treatment of cholera, which had 
broken out in Sicily a few months previous. I was very well 
received ; but, on showing my diploma, which, with a few other 
papers, I had brought with me from Catania, I was told that, 
being a foreigner — ^yes, a man born in the south was called a 
foreigner in the north of Italy I — my services could not be 
accepted, unless, through a petition to the king, I obtained an 
exemption. At first, the notion of sending in a petition to 
be allowed the privilege of exposing my life in the service of my 
fellow-creatures, proved very unpalatable. However, these gen- 
tlemen were so very earnest in begging me to comply with what 
was, they said, but a formahty ; they offered with such a good 
grace to transmit the petition themselves, and support it in the 
proper quarter ; the British Consul, on the other hand, combated 
my reluctance so strenuously, that at length I yielded. So I 
sent the petition — horrid stuff, to be sure — and at the end of 
another week, my permit of residence having extended so far, I 
was informed that my request was granted. The Board of 
Health at once despatched me to San Remo, where I arrived or 
the 23d of April.” 

“ My birth-day I” exclaimed Lucy, in girlish glee. What a 
strange chance I” 

Say happy as well as straige,” observed Antonio, touched 
by her innocent elation at the coincidence. “ So you will be 


Bits of Information. 


121 


twenty in two days. I am glad you have told me now, for 
though in a strange land you shall hear friendly voices giving 
you hearty good wishes.” 

Do not forget,” said Lucy, playfully ; “ but now you must go 
on and tell me how you came to remain here.” 

I have little more to say. When I arrived at San Remo, 
the cholera was at its height. I did my best, though with little 
success. What can man’s skill and energy avail against an 
impalpable foe, which seems to mock and set at naught all 
human calculation, and defy all remedies ? All I can say in my 
own favour is, that I did not spare myself.” 

That I am sure you did not,” said Lucy, warmly. 

“ And I have been more than repaid by the affection and 
gratitude of the people all about this part. After several 
months of hard struggle and hard work, the fearful visitation 
diminished, and then disappeared of its own accord. Shortly 
after, the parish doctor of Bordighera, a very old man, died, 
and the town-council offered me the appointment. I liked the 
little town, which I had visited many a time. I liked the good 
people, most of whom I knew, and so I accepted the offer. But 
the government refused to ratify my election, again on the plea 
of my being a foreigner, and having taken my degree in a 
foreign university. Bordighera, however, had it at heart that I 
should be the doctor, and a deputation, composed of the mayor 
and one or two of the council-men, actually went to Turin, to 
try what could be done. The commandant of San Remo, with 
whom I had become very friendly, backed the deputation, and 
wrote in my favor. My services were pompously set forth and 
pleaded, and at last my nomination — a state affair — ^received the 
official seal and signature. That is how I came to settle in this 
country place as physician and parish doctor.” 

“ What a sad destiny to be thus driven from one’s birth-place, 
from one’s home, far from those one loves best 1” exclaimed 

6 


122 


Doctor Antonia 


Lucy, with tears in her eyes. “ What you have just been saying 
gives me a glimpse of a state of things I never dreamed of before 
You will be shocked at my ignorance — but pray, how many 
separate states are there in Italy ?” 

“ So many,” replied Antonio, “ that unless I reckon them on 
my fingers I am not sure of the number myself. Let me see — 
there is Naples (including Sicily), Rome, Sardinia, Tuscany, 
Parma, Lucca,’*' and Modena ; the Lombardo-Venetian, under 
Austrian rule, makes the eighth.” 

“ And are the governments all alike ?” 

“ All alike, each and all of them working on the grinding 
principle.” 

“ And the Pope — is his as bad as the rest ?” 

Fully, nay, if possible, still worse. I daresay it did not 
strike you as being so.” 

“To tell the truth,” said Lucy, with some little embarrass- 
ment, “ I did not think about the matter.” 

“No great wonder at your age. A young lady who goes to 
Rome in search of health and amusement, is not likely to trouble 
herself much about the character of the government. Did you 
know many Roman families ?” 

“ Scarcely any, except that of Prince Sofronia. We visited 
exclusively among the English.” 

“ That is almost universally the case with strangers. They 
come to Italy as they would to a convenient hostelry ; and when 
a man goes to an hotel, it is certainly not with the intention of 
interesting himself about the people of the house.” 

“ What should I do, then, to get some knowledge of men and 
things when I next go to Rome ?” 

• A clause in the Treaty of Vienna provided, that after the death of Maria Louisa of 
Austria, reigning Duchess of Parma, the Duke of Lucca should he restored to his paternal 
States of Parma, and that Lucca should be incorporated with Tuscany. These change* 
took place in 1847, at the demise of Maria Lcuisa, and consequently the number of the 
petty States of Italy was diminished by one — that of Lucca. 


Bits of InformatioiL 


128 


“ There is only one way/^ said Antonio : “ to miy with ali 
elasses of society, and to keep eyes and ears wide open. But 
this, of course, a young lady cannot and ought not to do,” 

“ I wish I we^e not a young lady,” said Lucy, with child-like 
impatience, “ if being so is to always hamper me at every turn 
But at all events, I can try to obtain information.” 

“ Of course,” replied Antonio ; “ and as you say you are to 
return to Rome, let me give you a timely warning. Never, 
under any pretext or persuasion, lend one of your Protestant 
Bibles to a Roman.” 

“ Why not ? You told me the other day that many Italians 
read the Bible.” 

“Very true ; but I told you at the same time that only one 
translation was allowed. Were you to be found infringing the 
prohibition against disseminating any other version, you might 
learn to your cost what sort of leniency and toleration graces 
the sway of the vicar of Jesus Christ. As to those among my 
countrymen who take upon themselves to read unauthorized 
translations, they do so at their own risk and peril. But I think 
W2 have had enough of politics. I must now tell you of my 
gxeat prospects.” 

“ Ah, yes I do,” said Lucy. 

“I had been here two years, when I was offered a similar 
appointment in a distant part of Piedmont proper. The sole 
advantage over the one I hold here was pecuniary, the emolu- 
ments being fully double. On the other hand, the little town to 
which I was invited was situated in a narrow valley hemmed in 
by mountains, damp at aU seasons, and very cold in winter. 
Was I, who had none dependent on me, to leave my kind and 
grateful neighbors, each of whom I knew by sight and name ? — 
was I to give up this vast extent of glorious nature, which glad- 
dens my eyes and lightens my heart whenever I look at it, and 
all for a little paltry money ? I could not do it. I am a spoilt 


134 


Doctor Antonia 


child of the south. I want air, light, warmth, color. I dote oil 
this sky, — on this sea. I cannot do without them ; they are my 
life.” 

“ It does my heart good,” said Lucy, ** to see you can be 
enthusiastic for once.” 

“ Put me on the chapter of this nature at any time,” retorted 
Antonio, smiling, “ and you will see.” 

So you sent a refusal,” said Lucy. 

To be sure, and without the least hesitation.” 

“ It was just like you,” pronounced Lucy, whose interest and 
respect for the narrator rose with every particular which placed 
in stronger light the noble simplicity of his mind. 

^‘My second grand opening in life,” continued the Italian, 
“ was of so misty a nature that I am at a loss how to explain it. 
It was the chance of a supplementary chair of anatomy at the 
University of Turin. There was to be a competition for it. The 
actual head professor, somewhat a friend of mine, advised me to 
come forward as one of the competitors. To have my name 
admitted on the list of candidates would have required me to 
send in a petition again, to be exempted from one of the requisite 
conditions, viz., that of Sardinian nationality. Now, I had 
petitioned once, and that was more than enough for me, so I 
thanked my friend, and there the affair ended.” 

“ That was too bad,” said Lucy, in a tone of reproof. 

You say so, because you don’t know what petitioning means 
in this country,” replied Antonio. “ One is compelled to use an 
express formulary, a most abject one, and of which the language 
is less that of man to man than of a slave to his driver. The 
very name of the thing, a supplication {supplied), is sickening to 
me. No, not to save my life shall I ever write another petition.” 

Two days after this conversation was the 23d of April. 
When Antonio called, he found three immense boquets, at least 
twenty inches in diameter, arranged according to the Genoese 


Bits of Information. 


12d 


fasliion, and fastened to sticks two feet long, standing by Lncy^i 
bed. Rosa and Speranza, not satisfied with preparing their own, 
had furnished Sir John with one to present to his daughter. 
** Look, — ^look I Doctor Antonio,” cried Lucy, as he entered th* 
room, pointing to her magnificent flower show. 

“ Many happy returns of this day,” began the Italian. “ I 
knew I had no chance of vying with Rosa and Speranza, so 
I brought you no nosegay, but a single flower multiplied by 
itself ;” — and so saying he tendered to Lucy a branch of peach- 
tree in full blossom, that he had hid behind him. 

“ Oh ! this is best of all — how glorious I” cried Lucy, clasping 
her hands in delight. 

“ Yes ; is it not splendid ?” said Antonio. “ Can you conceive 
anything more elegant than this corolla 1 anything richer than 
the tints of these petals, fading from thk royal purple into the 
most delicate blush of the rose? The <>'.oralla, as you see, is 
polypetalous ” 

“No technicality, no analyzing,” interrupted Locy ; “let me 
enjoy unmixed admiration to the full.” 

“You are right,” answered Antonio ; “ k by analyzing we add 
to our stock of knowledge, it is rare that we do aot interfere 
with our enjoyment. That this is one of Na^'»tre’s wonders, a 
(Juf-Wctuvre, is all we require to know about it.” 

“ It makes me think,” said Lucy, “ of what ii5 written of the 
lilies of the field, — ‘ And yet I say unto you, that 5oloj?H)n in all 
his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' ” 

“ To my eyes,” resumed Antonio, “ this peach-branch bespeaks 
the hand of a supreme Artificer as conclusively in its way as all 
the glories of the firmament.” 

“ It does, indeed,” returned Lucy. “ How unaccountas’H it 
seems that there should be people who see nothing in a.’! the 
marvels of the universe but the working of matter and the res,^ 
of a blind chance I” 


126 


Doctor Antonio. 


Antonio said nothing, but gazed on thz speahtr with 
Intense sympathy. She remained pensive, with her fa/'/e upturned 
towards the heavens, • 

• “And looks commercing with the ikleB, 

Her rapt soul sitting in her eyea.^ 

No words SO aptly as these of Milton can describe our sweet 
Lucy at this moment. Neither of the young people spoke for 
some time, but their hearts had never before been in such close 
communion as during this pause. Antonio was the first to speak. 

“ Have you ever read Picciola ?” 

“ No. is it a novel V’ asked Lacy. 

“ Yes, it is a novel, by a celebrated French author. Monsieur 
Saintine. What you said just now brought it to my recollec- 
tion.” 

“ What is it about ?” 

“ A flower,” answered Antoaio. “ The heroine of the novel 
is a flower I” 

“ How strange I — a flower ?” 

“ Nothing more nor less,” said Antonio ; “and performing the 
most glorious part ever allotted to a heroine.” 

“ You excite my curiosity,” said Lucy. “ Do tell me a little 
about this Picciola,” 

“ The groundwork of the tale is simply this. The hero, just 
such a sceptic as you have been alluding to, is a young nobleman, 
implicated in some conspiracy against Napoleon I., and for that 
cause imprisoned in the Fortress of Fenestrelle. Shut up 
between the four bare walls of his cell, deprived of books, pen, 
and ink, and of all human intercourse, save with his jailor, the 
DOor prisoner is allowed no other recreation but that of an hoards 
exercise in an inner court of the fortress. In one of these daily 
walks up and down the dull yard, his eye lights by chance upoD 
a diminutive green shoot, trying to force its way between twe 


Bits of InformatioiL 


127 


stones. At first the sight is perfectly indifferent to the prisoner j 
but as on each returning day he views the gradual development 
of the plant, and its hard struggle for existence, his interest is 
gradually aroused, and increases every day, till it grows into a 
passion. The mysterious wonders of vegetation strike upon the 
mind and heart of the materialist, and the humble little flower 
becomes a ladder upon which he elevates himself to the concep- 
tion of a first cause. Picciola, or little one — such is the name he 
has given to the plant — is, in short, the missionary which converts 
the skeptical Uase man of the word into a believer.” 

“ That is really a beautiful story,” said Lucy; “ I must get the 
book, if you will write down the title for me. And what plant 
was it that worked such a miracle ?” 

“ The hero of the tale, it is said, could never discover the 
botanical name of his wonder-working flower.” 

‘‘ What a pity I” said Lucy. “ One might have wished that 
it had been a violet or a forget-me-not, — or — by-the-bye, Doctor 
Antonio, among all the flowers you have brought to me, there 
have never been any forget-me-nois. Do they not grow in Italy?” 

“Yes, in quantities.” 

“ And you have never brought me any I” said Lucy reproach- 
fully. Why have you never done so ?” 

“ Why, I don’t know,” said Antonio, smiling, but with a shade 
of embarrassment ; “ perhaps I thought that seeing me so often, 
you did not need any to remind you of me.” 

“ A presumptuous, bad reason,” answered Lucy, tartly ; “ I 
would not advise you to rely too much on it.” 

The next time he called, the doctor brought his young 
patient a large bunch of these pretty little blue- flowers. She 
put them into a glass on the table near her, and said, pointing 
to them, half seriously, half playfully, “ you don’t know yet that 
. am very forgetful ; as long as I have these, I shall not forget 
you.” 


128 


Doctor Antonio. 


If Antonio had been a commonly v lin man, he mi'^ht have 
thought that she meant mo-e than she expressed: but h"^ only 
gave her credit for wishing io atone for her rather sharp 
speech of the day before. 


Soeranza. 


IM 


Chapter Vlli, 

Speranza. 

What with reading, watching the sea, lessons in botany, 
lessons on the guitar, and chatting with Doctor Antonio, Lucy 
had reached the twentieth day of her stay in bed in tolerable 
spirits, and without complaining of time hanging heavily on her 
hands. The necessity of this tedious confinement, was, in fact, 
the only serious inconvenience still entailed on Miss Davenne by 
her late accident. The fits of pain that would now and then 
shoot through her injured limb, especially the foot, during the 
first days, had gradually subsided, and then completely vanished; 
so had that sense of restlessness which interfered with her sleep ; 
and, on the whole, Lucy’s health was rather improved than 
otherwise from what it had been for some time previous to the 
unlucky casualty that had brought her to the Osteria. 

On that twentieth morning, then, Antonio paid his visit earlier 
than usual, and said, “ I have come to wish you good-bye till 
to-morrow. I am called away to a place some hours distant, and 

shall have to sleep there.” 

This piece of news made Lucys heart contract painfully. “ It 
will be a long day for me,” she answered, and could not resist 
adding, “ but you will be sure to be back to-morrow ?” 

Without fail,” replied Antonio ; “I shall bid Speranza comt 
and keep you company. Her stories may amuse you. Now, 

6 * 


ISO 


Doctor Antonio. 


tell me, do not you think I had better see Sir John Davenne, tc 
let him know that I shall he absent for the next four-and-twenty 
hours 

“ Yes, pray do so,” said Lucy, thankfully ; for Lucy had not 
been without remarking, that there existed a certain restraint in 
the manner of the gentlemen towards each other, and hailed 
anything in the shape of an adyance from the doctor, as 
possibly conducive to a better understanding. So Hutchin? 
was sent, as usual, to see where Sir John was, and Antonio 
taking leave of Lucy, followed Iris to the presence of the British 
Jupiter. 

As it is not our intention to give our hero credit for more 
generosity than he had in his nature, we shall at once state that 
the proffer he had just made to Miss Davenne, was not a sign of 
any growing kindness, but neither more nor less than a stroke of 
policy. Antonio had a little plan to propose to Sir John, whiclf 
he rather preferred that Miss Davenne should know nothing 
about for the present. Now, to see Sir John unknown to Luc; 
being difficult, he was glad of having a specious pretext for af 
official tUerCL-tete with the stiff-necked, stiff-backed papa of hi 
patient. 

Ever since Doctor Yorkers memorable visit and Antonio*\ 
decisive victory, Sir John, by one of the strangest among the 
strange delusions of mental optics, had eyed the Italian in the 
light of the author of all his woes. Sir John was not quite sure 
whether Antonio, with his nonsensical chattering to Prospero on 
the road, had not been the primary cause of the overturn of the 
carriage ; but as to the Italian’s having in some way or other 
managed to bring about the present unpleasant state of things, 
of this Sir John felt not the slightest doubt ; and his resentment 
was proportionate to the injury he had received. Now, well-bred 
gentlemen, as everybody knows, have a thousand ingenious ways 
of their own to make it perfectly understood, that they wish yoo 


Speranza. 


131 


at the deuce, without deviating the eighth of an inch from the 
strictest propriety in word or manner. Least of all, was this 
inheritor of a yard long of pedigree, this quintessence of gentle 
manliness, deficient in the talent of making himself disagreeable 
in a polite way if he chose. This is a peculiar branch of diplo- 
macy much studied and practised in fashionable drawing-rooms, 
and among the higher circles. In this school are acquired the 
ceremonious bow, that throws you to a greater distance than 
the wrong end of any telescope ; the bland smile that proves so 
charmingly provoking ; the frigid “hope you are well,” that 
sounds like a memento mori^ and a variety of other such choice 
ways of being superlatively annoying in the most engaging man- 
ner ; — all of which our polished Englishman applied with distin 
guished ingenuity in the present emergency. But where he came 
out with unparalleled excellence, was in the daily expression of 
regret and reiteration of apologies for the trouble the doctor 
was put to. One would have sworn to seeing sharp needles issue 
from his mouth at every word. Antonio, after several unsuc- 
cessful attempts at conciliation, took the hint, and repaid the 
baronet in his own coin ; returned his bows at precisely the same 
angle of inclination at which they were made : inquired for Sir 
John^s health in the same icy tone in which the state of his own 
had been investigated ; conducting himself in all other respects 
as if no Sir John existed, and going in and out of the Osteria 
with an ease and equanimity, that left his English foe in a 
pleasant doubt as to whether or not his tactics were understood. 

Strangely enough, this uncomfortable state of things had 
lasted on, even when the causes producing it had partly ceased 
to exist, vix., when the old gentleman^s feeling of irritation 
towards the younger one had considerably subsided — a result 
chiefly brought about by that best of all peace-makers, time, and 
various other almost imperceptible agencies, whose workings on 
the human mind are as positive as undefinable. The Osteria 


132 


Doctor Antonio. 


which at first had been like Frederic the Great’s kingoam, “ aK 
sting,” though not positively transformed into a land of peace 
flowing with milk and honey, was nevertheless no longer the bed 
of nettles it had been. Sir John was, on the whole, tolerably 
comfbrtable; he received the Timis regularly every morning, and 
was well supplied with those savoury literary entremets, English 
periodicals. An avalanche of arm-chairs, couches, looking- 
glasses, curtains, lamps, crockery, etc., etc., had come from Nice 
to minister to his ease, and so had a cook — fancy, the cook of 
the late bishop of Albenga, the greatest gastronome in the 
Riviera. By the mail from Nice to Genoa, his courier managed 
to supply his table with everything in season. Two cows at a 
neighboring farm had been appropriated to the service of the 
family, and very passable butter figured at the baronet’s break- 
fast and tea. His walks were free from all molestation, it being 
now well known that the Milordo Englese did not like to be 
spoken to. Sir John was a kind of walking notification of 
“ no trespass allowed.” The mayor and the majority of the 
town-council of Bordighera, had waited on him in state, and so 
had an elderly nobleman, called, by antonomasia, “ the Count,” 
who lived in retirement in his palazzino, just on the other side 
of the hill of Bordighera. These visits, punctiliously returned^ 
of course, had agreeably tickled the baronet’s self-love and 
importance. After all, he saw he was among people who knew 
theii* betters Find, if you can, a member of the baronetage of 
Great Britain, who acknowledges or believes that an Italian 
nobleman, whose name, perhaps, figures in history before the 
Plantagenets were heard of, can be his equal I Sir John, in a 
word, felt nearly as comfortable as he had done anywhere since 
he left bis native shores, and was therefore considerably mollified 
towards Italian mankind in general, and in particular towards 
that sample of it, which went under the name of Doctor Antonio. 
The never-ending anthem of praise Lucy sang of all that tb# 


Speranza. 


133 


lector did and devised to amuse her, and what Sir John had 
himself witnessed of it, had probably not been without some 
effect on the father’s heart. Unhappily, Sir John was too proud 
to ^ive any outward sign of his altered sentiments which might 
be regarded as an advance on his part, and continued, from false 
shame, if not so biting as of old, at least as formal, as distant, 
and as frigid as ever. 

This premised, we shall understand how Sir John, on emerging 
from his room, apologized most ceremoniously to Doctor Antonio 
for having kept him waiting so long — -just half a minute — and 
how Doctor Antonio in return offered a rather verbose excuse 
for having disturbed Sir John at such an unseasonable hour. 
Hearing which, the baronet made a declaration to the purpose 
that he was always at Doctor Antonio’s service, and begged him 
to be seated. Here came a flourish of bows, followed by a 
skirmish as to who should, or should not be seated first, a diffi- 
culty which was settled by both the gentlemen sitting down at 
the same time. 

It is my pleasant duty,” began the doctor, in a somewhat 
oratorical tone, “ to communicate excellent news of our interest- 
ing invalid. Miss Davenne is uncommonly well this morning.” 

‘ 1 rejoice to hear you say so,” replied Sir John, with great 
condescension, “ though I could scarcely expect less, considering 
all the skill and attention you have shown in your treatment of 
Miss Davenne.” 

Antonio would have said something to beg a truce to compli- 
ments. ‘‘No, no 1” pursued Sir John, “ you must allow me to 
gay so. I know the extent of my obligations and the valu« 
of your time, and I shall do my best to show my sense of both.* 

Does this Don Magnifico mean to pay me for my conversa^ 
tions on botany and my lessons on the guitar ? thought Antonio, 
and at the thought, he knitted his brows portentously, and said 
drily, ** You overrate both the extent of your obligations and 


134 


Doctor Antonio. 


the value of my time j especially at this season 

when, I am happy to say, there are so few ill in the 

time is worth very little. Perhaps, to avoid any future misum 

derstanding, I had better at once distinctly inform you, that nine 

out of ten of my visits are not professional, and consequently 

exclude any question of fees. 

Sir John made a very wry face, and his nostrils contracted as 
if there were a bad smell in the wind. Antonio went on saying, 

My motive for troubling you this morning, is on a matter 
relating to Miss Davenne. Miss Davenne, I must render her 
this justice, has borne her confinement in bed with admirable 
patience and sweetness ; still the trial is heavy, and will become 
more so as she advances in her recovery, and I have been think- 
ing much of late whether we could not contrive some means of 
alleviating it. Supposing we could manage to have her carried 
every day to that balcony, so that she might enjoy a more 
extended view of the country around, have more fresh air, amuse 
herself with drawing, and even receive visits, if she chose, — I 
think this would prove a great relief to her.” 

“ A great relief, certainly,” echoed Sir John. 

“ Now,” resumed Antonio, “ what would be quite out of the 
question with ninety-nine out of a hundred persons in her case, 
seems to me worth while trying, and even likely to succeed with 
a lady of Miss Davenne’s sense, and discretion, and earnestness 
in obeying directions.” 

** Could we not,” said Sir John, “ have a sofa placed on thf 
balcony, and have her carried there every day ?” 

** A sofa would not be safe,” answered the doctor. “ We 
must guard Miss Davenne against the chance of doing herself 
harm, even by an involuntary movement, and I think T have hit 
on a means which meets even that danger. Here is the plan of 
a seat,” continued Antonio, handing Sir John a paper with a 
rough sketch on it, “ which is something, as vou see, between 


Speranza. 


185 


tke body of a carriage and an arm-chair, on which Miss Davenne 
could lie at length. This padded hollow in front is meant te 
keep tJie foot steady, and guarded from any motion, even inde- 
pendent of the will. The whole could be put on wheels made to 
move at the pleasure of any one sitting on it. If you approve of 
my plan, I can have it executed immediately by a most skillful 
cabinet-maker, a friend of mme (Sir John winced visibly at this 
last announcement), and whom I shall see this very day at a 
place to which I am going, for four-and-twenty hours.” 

“ Your idea is excellent,” said the baronet. “ But are you 
sure that the man you speak of is capable of executing youi 
orders perfectly ?” 

“ I have no doubt of it,” said the Italian ; “the person I 
mean is a genius in his way, and I even rely on him for suggest- 
ng any improvements that can be made, and which he will see 
it a glance. By-the-by,” added he, “I have mentioned nothing 
)f this to Miss D avenue, lest the scheme should fail from some 
•nuse or other, and ” 

“ Quite right,” interrupted Sir John, “ I shall not breathe a 
* f ord about it.” 

“ Thank you — and now that I have your sanction,” wound up 
Antonio, rising, “ I will not trespass longer on your time.” 

“ Pray, sir,” said Sir John, rising also, “receive my very best 
thanks ; very considerate of you, I am sure — very — kind. I am 
infinitely obliged to you.” 

Sir John was really in earnest with his thanks, and these last 
words were pronounced in a tone to which he had little accus- 
tomed Antonio^s ears. The Italians, unvarying independence 
and disinterestedness both piqued and pleased the haughty baro- 
net Of all qualities in a man, that which Sir J onn could best 
appreciate and valued the most, was pride. After all, said he 
to himself, as he bent his steps towards Lucy^s room, there is a 
uash of the gentleman in that Italian. After all, said Doctoi 


136 


Doctor Antonio. 


AiLtonio to himself, as he crossed the gardcL, there is a touch of 
feeling in that old ogre. Thus both gentlemen had separated more 
kindly disposed towards each other than they had felt hitherto. 

Lucy did her best to beguile the hours, but with little success 
Everything which had so lively an interest for her so long as 
Antonio was there, had none now that he was absent. The 
very sky was not so brilliant, the sea not so blue. She put aside 
her books and flowers, and fell to musing. Never had such a 
feeling of loneliness fallen on her before, and as it is the privi- 
lege of a present sadness to awaken those of the past, so did 
there come to her, strangely distinct from out a mass of confused 
thoughts and images, the recollection of her mother, making the 
girl clasp her hands, while a pang of sorrow stung her to the 
quick, as if for the first time she had known, that never more 
had she a mother’s heart to lean on. Then memory carried her 
back to her childhood. Her old nurse, her playthings, the 
lawn, the garden, all old familiar faces and scenes came before 
her, and hot tears rolled over her cheeks. Lucy was very sad, 
and wondered why it was that she was so sad, and why it was 
that she felt so lonely ; why there was such a blank around her. 
Her eyes drooped, and she began to wish that Speranza would 
come to keep her company, as Antonio had said she would. 
Speranza was the only society that V 70 uld have suited Lucy this 
morning, — Speranza who seemed to her, and really was so very 
different from Hutchins, to whom Miss Davenne never could 
have looked as a resource. 

Speranza at last made her appearance, and went quietly to 
take her usual seat by the foot of the bed. Lucy, on looking at 
her, saw traces of tears in her eyes, and said, “You have been 
crying, Speranza — tell me what is the matter.” Speranza 
attempted a faint denial with her hand, — her heart, poor thing, 
was so full, that any effort at speaking would have made it ovei> 
Jlow — and bent her head lower over her distaff. 


Speranza. 


187 


** Come ana speak to me,” said Lucy, and drawing her gentij 
down towards herself, she asked, in her sweetest tone, “ What 
ails you, my poor girl ?” Lucy’s tender voice went straight to 
the poor peasant’s heart, who, unable to control herself any 
longer, hid her face in Lucy’s bosom, and burst into a passion of 
tears and sobs. “ Pray, tell me what is the matter, perhaps I 
can help you,” insisted Lucy, kissing Speranza’s head, and 
crying herself by way of comforting her. 

“ Thank you, madam,” sobbed the girl, “ God will reward you 
for your pity — for me — but my sorrow — is past help and say- 
ing so, she drew a letter out of her pocket, put it into Lucy’s 
hand, then seating herself again on her stool, covered her head 
with her apron, and began rocking herself to and fro, with little 
moans expressive of intense anguish. The letter, written in a 
neat clear hand, was dated “ Genoa,” and signed “ Battista,” in 
huge, rather primitive characters. It ran thus ; — 

“My Good Spkranza: 

“ My case was brought yesterday before the Council of Revision, 
and I gave in my certificates, I mean the Mayor of Bordighera’s letter, and 
the one you sent me from the cure. The officer who read the letters, and 
had the talk all to himself, said they were stuff and nonsense, and that J 
might thank the council for not declaring me contumacious — I think that’s 
the word — and punishing me as such. Then they wrote down my name 
in what is called the Roll-book. So it is all over with me now ; 1 am 
regularly entered for four years as a sailor in the king’s service. If 1 had 
come fairly by it I should not mind, I might say to you, ‘ You are young, 
and so am I Four years come to an end some day ; — wait for me.’ But 
I have been hardly used, and not a bit of justice in it, and so they shaiJ 
find me a bad bargain, I can tell them. I’ll give his majesty the slip tha 
very first, opportunity, and try my fortune in some better country, where 
there is justice for the poor as well as rich ; so you need not think of me 
any more unless you choose to think of me as a departed friend, for such 
I am and shall be to the last. If I were to tell you that my heart is fairly 
broken, it would serve no purpose but to make your sorrow greater, so ] 
jha’o’t say anything of the kind, onlv rood-bye on this side of the grave 


138 


Doctor Antonio. 


j have tried hard to be a good son, and live in the fear ot God and of the 
Madonna Santissima. What good has it done me? I have more than i 
mind to take to swearing, and drinking, and fighting, like most of my 
messmates, who seem never the worse for it, but rather the better. It’s 
of no use writing any more,— so God bless you, as I do from my inner* 
most heart ; and do not forget me in your prayers, and think sometime* 
of your unfortunate 

“ Battista. 

<‘P. S. — My duty to dear, dear mother Rosa, and to kind Doctor Anto- 
nio. T meant to have sent you the lock of hair you gave me on the even- 
ing before my first voyage to Marseilles, and the ring we exchanged in 
the chapel of the Madonna of Lampedusa. But I can’t part with them — 
really, I can’t.” 

Lucy wiped her eyes as she gave back the letter to Speranza, 
who had never ceased her moans, and swaying to and fro. 

Now, though explicit enough in the main, Battista’s epistle 
left many minor points obscure, which the warm-hearted English 
girl, with a true woman’s interest in a love story, wished to have 
explained. This desire led to a string of questions from the one 
and answers from the other, these last interspersed by sobs and 
tears, which, though adding to their pathos, rather interfered 
with their clearness. It is out of these answers, only put in 
some better order, that we are going to extract Speranza’s little 
story, leaving it, however, entirely in her own mouth, lest by 
telling it ourselves we should do what Antonio was afraid of 
doing, and would not do — that is, spoil its simplicity. 

“ Battista,” began Speranza, “ was the only son of a poor 
woman who was always called ‘ Widow Susan,’ though her man 
was stih alive ; but he had deserted her when Battista was only 
fcwo years old, and had gone to Prance, and settled there. As 
Widow Susan lived next door to us — that was long before we 
kept this Osteria — Battista and I were almost as much together 
as if we bad been brother and sister, and when we were neither 
vf us as high that ’’—and the girl pointed to a table — “he 


Speranza. 


1S9 


ne?er called me by any name but ‘little wife/ and I always 
called him my ‘ little man/ Every Sunday, after vespers, Bat 
tista would wait for me at the church door to go home with me, 
and never spoke to any girl but me, though he was spoken to 
often enough — for, though I say it, it is true, madam, he was the 
handsomest boy in the parish. When I grew older, and began 
to go to the wood, Battista was sure to come and meet me half 
way, and carry my bundle for me. And so it came about that 
it was as good as settled, and everybody in Bordighera, and we 
most of all took it for granted, that as soon as we were old 
enough, we should be married ; though neither father, nor 
mother, nor Widow Susan, had ever said a word about the mat- 
ter. Battista had a great liking to the sea, and would fain have 
gone to see the world, and make some money for me, but he was 
too good a son to think of leaving his poor, dear mother, who 
had no support but him, and so he stayed at home, and turned 
fisherman ; and it was a real pride, madam — apd Speranza’s 
cheek flushed, “ to see how he managed his boat. He was the 
smartest and best of all our boatmen, and everybody said so. 

“ Year after year passed, bringing no change, till this house 
was set up for sale, and my father, who had long taken a fancy 
to it, agreed for the purchase, and we came to live here. My 
father, whose health was failing fast, had it in his mind that the 
air of this place, not so sharp as at Bordighera, would do him 
a deal of good. So we settled here, and father, one evening — I 
remember it as if it was yesterday — said to Battista, ‘ As this 
house is to be yours one day, I mean when you and Speranza 
are man and wife, I expect you to lend a hand towards paying 
the price of it j for I must tell you that all my little savings have 
gone at once in the first instalment, and there are three more of 
them owing, one each year, for three years running, and we 
cannot expect to get the money for these payments and enough 
to keep us too, out of the produce of the land and he custom of 


140 


Doctor Antonia 


the house So, my lad, go to work, with God’s blessing, as hard 
as you can, and make money. Widow Susan shall come and 
live with us while you are away j so your mind may be at rest 
about her.’ 

“ Battista was quite oveqoyed at this arrangement and at my 
ather’s talking to him in this way, because it made him quite 
sure of being one day his son. He made no delay, but set off at 
once to Nice, where he engaged himself on board a trading 
vessel bound to Genoa, went from thence to Leghorn, and then 
to Marseilles, and as far away as Cette, and to many other 
places ; and whenever he came home, which he did three or four 
times in the first two years that he spent at sea, he always 
brought some little comfort for his mother, and something curious 
or fine for me, and a little money for father ; but it was very 
little, because Battista’s wages were very scanty. 

“ One day my father said to Battista, ‘ At this rate it will take 
us ten years to pay for this place. I had to borrow money for 
the second payment, and now the third is almost due. How am 
I to manage ?’ Battista said, that if it hadn’t been for the con- 
scription, which bound a man hand and foot, he knew of a place 
where he could go and be sure of getting money, and he named 
it, — a far, far off place, in a country called Tipodes, that the 
schoolmaster said was on the other side of the earth, below our 
feet. But Battista, who had been there since, says it is all 
nonsense ; for if it was so, how could people stand on their feet ? 
and yet they do.” And Speranza looked up at Lucy as if she 
had uttered an unanswerable argument. 

“ That is not quite a proof,” said Lucy, smiling ; ** but we will 
Calk of that another time. Go on with your story, now.” 

“ Well, then,” pursued Speranza — “ ‘ But,’ said father to Bat* 
tista, ‘you can’t be taken, you know, because you are all the 
same as the only son of a widow.’ 

“ ‘ So I am,’ said Battista ; ‘ still I must attend and draw out 


Speranza. 


141 


a number, as it seems, at least I was told that such was the law 
when I went for my papers at Genoa/ 

“ ‘ Ah V says father, ‘ they are always plaguing poor folks with 
their law. Well, never mind, it^s only three months to wait 
who knows, you may draw a good number, and that will set i 
all right.^ 

“ ‘ Please God it be so,^ said Battista. 

“ God was good to us, madam, for, when the time came. Bah 
tista^s number was one of the highest, and he had not to be 
marched away. He was not present at the drawing, which took 
place at Nice ; but that did not signify, the gentlemen of the 
board drew for the young men who were absent. As soon as his 
good luck was known at Bordighera, the mayor wrote him a 
letter to Genoa, where Battista had gone a trip — a beautiful 
letter it was — to give him the happy news ; and with this 
letter in hand, Battista got leave to go where he pleased, and 
all the papers he wanted, and he sailed away for that fai, fax off 
place. 

“ From that day we had nothing but misfortunes. Widow 
Susan fell ill of a fever, and, in spite of Doctor Antonio’s care, 
died within a month. I was so broken-hearted at this unexpected 
loss, and at having to break the sad news to Battista, — ^he had 
made me promise to let him know anything, good or bad, that 
might happen to his mother, — and withal so worn out with 
sitting up night after night with Widow Susan, that I fell ill 
myself next, and was in bed for six weeks, and should never have 
got up again but for Doctor Antonio. I was just beginning tc 
crawl about when, one morning, the mayor called here, and said 
that Battista’s case was not so clear as he had thought at first, 
and that Battista must go and pass before that Council of 
Revision; which has taken him now, and that if he did not go he 
would be breaking the law. In a few days more a paper was 
posted up at the town-haU, and another at our house, where Bat 


142 


Doctor Antonio. 


tiflta’s poor mother had lived last, summoning him to appeal 
at a short notice. Now, there was no sense in this, for had not 
the mayor himself put it as plain as pen, ink, and paper could 
make it, that Battista could not be taken ? and then how could 
he answer the summons, when he was a three months^ voyage off, 
as everybody knew ? 

“ Oh, no I” continued Speranza, in a voice full of indignation, 
“ all this was done to throw the blame of having disobeyed the 
law upon the poor lad ; and who could have an interest in making 
him appear in the wrong, but the commandant at San Remo V’ 

“ How, the commandant at San Remo ?” asked Lucy, in sur- 
prise. 

“ You must know,” went on Speranza, ‘‘ that this command- 
ant had an old spite at Battista, and this is how it was. Once 
the commandant sent to desire Battista to get him some fine fish 
as he was going to give a grand dinner to the 0 overnor of Nice 
Battisto caught a beautiful San Pietro (John Dory), and took 
it to the commandant’s palazzo, expecting to be praised, and to 
have a good price for it. But he was offered just half its worth, 
and that put him in a passion after all the trouble he had taken, 
and he said he would rather throw it back into the sea than give 
it for less than its value ; and so he did, and the grand dinner 
turned out all wrong, because of there being no fish. When the 
commandant heard the reason, he was terribly angry, and swore 
that sooner or later he would make Battista pay for it. We 
could not help feeling for Battista, but all the same — we scolded 
him well for getting into such a scrape. Just fancy a poor 
fisherman presuming to stand against the greatest man in the 
province — a military man, too, used to have his own way and to 
make every body tremble. Every one said that the command- 
ant would be as good as his word, and so it proved. 

“ Time went by, and a very hard time it was, and we had no 
tidings of Battista. What we earned by keeping the inn was 


Speranza. 


143 


very little indeed. Father was going fast, ani his temper waxed 
sourer every day, and he never ceased moaning and complaining 
about his health, and at no news from Battista, and worrying 
about his debts, and this and that, till the customers grew weary 
of him, and fell off one by one. The little we made went in 
soup, good meat, and wine for the poor old man, who was ill of 

a bird in the stomach ” 

“ Of what exclaimed Lucy. 

A bird, madam, which ate everything he swallowed ; ask 
Doctor Antonio, madam, he will tell you what I mean. We 
were so poor now, that often I had to go twice a day to the 
wood, and, after all, I earned only enough to pay for a bit of 
meat, or a bottle of wine for father. If it had not been for 
Doctor Antonio, who helped us in many a way, and was like a 
guardian angel hovering over us, I don’t think we could have 
got on at aU. At last, after sixteen months of this life, a letter 
came from Battista. It was sad, for, poor fellow I he knew, 
by the time it was written, of his mother’s death, but to us it 
came like a message from heaven, to bid us keep up our courage. 
This letter was the first that reached us, but not the first that 
he had sent. He said that he was well, and had put by already 
a good round sum of money, and was sure of doubling it in six 
months more ; but after that he should come home, and we 
should all be happy together. We wept for joy as we read it 
Father, who was in bed in a very low way, joined his hands and 
said, “ Now, my God, take me when it is thy will ; I am ready to 
go, for my child will not be left destitute.’ A week after,” con- 
tinued Speranza, wiping her eyes, “ we carried the dear old man 
to the burying-ground. 

Ah I madam, we reckoned the days as a man condemned to 
death counts the hours he has to live. Six months went by, 
then seven, eight, nine, ten, and no Battista. It was one stormy 
evening last March ; mother and I were sitting sorrowfully Lb 


144 


Doctor Antonio. 


the dark, to spare cil — our little provision was almost gone, and 
we had no money to buy any — the wind was howling, and the 
sea roaring like a wild beast, and I was thinking of poor sailors 
at sea, when all at once I heard a step crossing the garden — my 
heart jumped up to my throat, and I rushed half crazy to the 
door. It was he — I knew his step, I was in his arms once more. 
Oh I the blessed moment 1 All my troubles were forgotten, all 
my misery was gone, for he had come back, he was there, — ne, 
Battista. Oh I why did God give me this little look of heaven 
to make me feel the loss of it more bitterly. Mother and I were 
mad with joy, but it did not last long. As soon as the lamp 
was lighted we saw a world of sorrow in poor Battista^s face, he 
was so worn and pale ; his eyes were sunken, his cheeks quite 
hollow. He had his right arm tied up in a handkerchief. 
‘What is the matter V asked I, all in a shake. ‘ We have been 
shipwrecked,^ he said, ‘ all hands drowned, poor fellows, except 
another and myself, and everything I had on earth gone 1” and 
as he spoke these words, he fell a crying. I thought, I did 
indeed, that my heart was going to split in two. I undid the 
handkerchief ; there was a great gash across the hand. Mother 
went to fetch Doctor Antonio — I was too sick to move — and 
brought him back with her. As soon as I heard the doctor’s 
voice I felt comforted, for I said to myself. He will help us. 
The voice of a friend is very sweet in sorrow, dear lady,” said the 
poor creature, trying hard to keep down her tears. “ Doctor 
Antonio dressed the wound, and began at once to cheer us by 
saying, that we ought to be thankful for the good left us — what 
if Battista had been drowned with the others? — ^that money, 
after all, was not happiness ; that Battista and I were young 
and strong ; and that, as he had lost his money, we must work 
the harder, and bless God that we were spared to one another, 
and as I listened to these good words the sickness left my heart. 
The doctor sat down with as, and then Battista told us all about 


Speranza. 


145 


the shipwreck ; how the vessel had struck on a sunken rock 
close in to the coast of Corsica — almost in sight of home I — and 
gone down in a minute ; how he and one of his shipmates had 
been picked up by a French ship going to Marseilles, and he 
had made his way on foot from thence to Bordighera. We 
sat long, and talked and talked over the past, and of poor 
dear father, and poor dear Widow Susan, and made plans for 
the future ; and when we separated, we did so with light hearts 
— ^for, after all, was he not spared to me, and I to him ? As 
it was now long after midnight, and Battista would find no 
house open at that hour. Doctor Antonio took him home to his 
lodgings for that night. 

“ Next morning, I made sure that Battista would be down 
with us early, so that I wondered very much when eight o^clock 
came, and still no Battista. But I never supposed that any 
thing was wrong until I saw Doctor Antonio coming alone. 
As soon as ever he was near enough, I knew by his face that he 
had bad news for me. The doctor told me at once that Battista 
had been summoned to San Remo on that business of the con- 
scription, and that I must not distress myself, but make ready 
and go with him and mother to San Remo. He would, he said, 
see the commandant, and do his best to right Battista. The 
doctor did not tell us then, what we knew very soon afterwards, 
that two carbineers had been sent from San Remo to fetch Bat- 
tista ; that they had arrested him in the street, put handcuffs on 
liim, and thus paraded him about the town as if he had been a 
tliief or a murderer, and then taken him away in a boat. They 
said it was law. I donT think there’s much justice in such 
laws,” said Speranza, very sharply. 

“ So the doctor, and mother, and I, went as fast as we could 
to San Remo, and made first of all for the jail, but as we had no 
pass, were refused admittance. We next went to the command- 
ant’s, who was busy, we were told, and could see no one. Doo 

t 


146 


Doctor Antonio. 


tor Autonio insisting, however, he was introduced, but he couid 
obtain nothing — not even the permission for us to see Battista — 
only the answer that it was the law, and that the law must be 
obeyed. After being kept a week in the jail at San Remo — 
God knows for what reason I — ^Battista was marched off, under 
an escort of carbineers, to Genoa, and taken to the dock-yard 
there, out of which he was never allowed to go. Doctor Antonio 
wrote in his behalf to all his friends at Genoa, even to the British 
Consul there. The curd gave us a letter, saying how Battista 
was all the same as fatherless, for his father had deserted him 
when only two years of age ; but nothing availed.” 

“ And what difference,” asked Lucy, “ would it have made if 
his father had really been dead ?” 

“ Oh, madam, he would not have been taken in the conscrp- 
tion. The only son of a widow is exempted from the service. 
So far the law is merciful to one whose father is dead, and why 
should it not be so to one whose father is all the same to him as 
if he was in the churchyard ? But what’s the use of reasoning 
about it ? The law is too strong for the poor — Battista, as you 
know, is condemned, and— (Speranza made a desperate effort 
to conquer her emotion, and continued slowly and composedly) — 
Well, let it be so ; I can bear it all without complaining. 
Everybody is not bom to be happy. I am willing to offer up my 
hopes in this world as a sacrifice to the Blessed Virgin, holy 
mother of somows. If it is ordained that I am not to be — Bat- 
tista’s wife, well. I can give him — up on this side of the grave. 
But I cannot, no — (she went on with a burst of passion, that 
made her eyes actually rain tears) — I cannot bear that he 
should turn to wickedness ; that he who has been such a pattern 
of goodness should take to breaking God’s commandments, and 
that we should be separated in all eternity. That is what wrings 
my heart and dri«^es me mad. Oh, no, no 1 that is what God 
will not let come to pass.” 


Speranza. 


147 


This was the first view that Ijucy had ever had into an aching 
heart — this was the first time that such things as want, hardship, 
and anguish, hitherto vague abstractions with her rather than 
stern realities, had stood up in a living shape, and told their sad 
tak and moaned and writhed within her sight and hearing. We 
leave the reader to imagine how all the holy springs of sympathy 
and pity heaved in Lucy’s gentle bosom, and gushed forth in 
soothing words and caresses, and earnest promises of assist- 
ance. 

“Perhaps you know the king?” said Speranza, all at oiKie 
raising her head, with a flash of hope in her eyes. 

“ No,” said Lucy ; “ why do you ask ?” 

“ Because,” said Speranza, “ if you could have told him 
Battista’s story, I am sure he would be merciful to us. Oh I if 
the king could only know, he would be sorry for us. Why 
should he, so great on his throne, wish poor folks to be 
wretched ?” 

“If we cannot speak to the king,” said Lucy, “ we can write 
to him — I mean, we can send him a memorial on behalf of 
Battista.” 

“That would be of no use,” replied the girl, dejectedly. 
“ Memorials sent by poor people never reach the king ; the bad 
counsellors stop them.” 

“ But, perhaps,” insisted Lucy, “ we can find somebody who 
will promise to put the memorial into the king’s own hands.” 

Speranza shook her head despondingly. It was plain that she 
had as bad an opinion of memorials as Doctor Antonio. 

“We shall find some way, depend upon it,” continued Lucy ; 
“ I will ask Doctor Antonio what to do.” Both girls brightened 
up at this. Evidently Speranza’s faith was greater in Doctor 
Antonio than in the memorial. 

Lucy thought long over Speranza’s story, wishing that the 
morrow were come, that she might ask the doctor how best tc 


148 


Doctor Antonio. 


help her prol^gde ; and then she fell to musing with particulai 
complacency on the part he had played in the little drama. 
Nor, it must be confessed, did she consider the Italian girlV 
enthusiastic expression of his having been like a guardian angel, 
either exaggerated or misplaced. The man seemed born to do 
good. For, had she not heard, did she not know from her own 
experience, that wherever there was sickness or sorrow, tears to 
dry, or sinking hearts to raise, there he was to be found, cheering, 
sustaining, ministering in many a way ? And now a glimmering 
light dawned on Lucy’s understanding, by which she began to 
perceive how a superior man like Doctor Antonio might be 
reconciled to his present lot; nay, she even felt disposed to think 
highly of that humble sphere into which fate had jostled him — 
a sphere, she saw, teeming with misery, oppression, and injustice, 
and therefore calculated to draw forth all the energy and 
chivalrous kindness of his nature. 

Lucy very soon lost herself in an inextricable labyrinth of 
speculation and argument, into which we need not follow her, 
but which interested her far more than Manzoni or the guitar, 
and brought her on to the end of the day less disagreeably than 
she had expected. Sir John, also, when he came to see her in 
the evening, looked more serene and cheerful than he had done 
since they had taken up their abode in the Osteria — a serenity 
and cheerfulness partly attributed by Lucy to the doctor’s consi- 
derate step in the morning ; but as Sir John was very loud in 
his praises of the bishop of Albenga’s former cook, we are 
inclined to believe that the dinner he had eaten had more to dc 
with his present optimism than Doctor Antonio. 


Lucy’s Scheme. 


140 


Chapter IX. 

Lucy’s Scheme. 

When Lu3y awoke next morning, she discovered that all was 
right again with the sky and the sea, and that the birds’ song 
was wondronsly sweet. The breakfast tray had just been 
removed, when the well-known step, so quick, yet so firm, the 
step that she could have singled out from among ten thousand 
others, made itself heard. Lucy wondered why her heart gave 
just such a bound as Speranza had spoken of, when describing 
her recognition of Battista’s footsteps in the garden. 

Another moment and here was Doctor Antonio, erect, and 
gentle, and smiling, as was his wont, radiating benevolence, so 
to say, from every pore. Here he was, all covered with dust, 
and looking none the worse for it in Lucy’s eyes, for that dust 
betokened some impatience and eagerness to see her again. 

“ A prize patient,” he began, “ who has slept ecundly, for she 
looks well — see, I have worked hard for you this morning and 
he uhowered down a quantity of aromatic wild plants j “ here’s 
thyme, lavender^ and rosemary, and sweet-briar, enough to put 
the best perfumer’s shop to the blush. You ought to tell 
Hutchins to make sachets of them. There's no patchoulU ir musk 
can compete with these.” 

Thank you, thank you,” said Lucy; “ Uow fresh the^ puiell J 
they make me think of gi*een hill-sides.” 


150 


Doctor Antonia 


If you do as I advise you,” said Antonio, “ they will serve 
some day, when yon are far, far away, to make yon think of on. 
poor Riviera.” 

“ Do not talk to me about going away, Doctor Antonio. I 
have grown so fond of this ugly old house, that I shall try and 
persuade papa to buy it, and make it into a beautiful cottage. 
Should you be sorry to have us for neighbors ?” The arch look 
on her face softened into a smile, that Doctor Antonio’s eye met 
rather gravely, yet lingered on. 

“ Now, Doctor Antonio, come aiid sit down by me, and do not 
expect to get away for two hours, at least. T have so many 
things to tell you, so many things to ask you.” 

Antonio complied, and Lucy then, with a somewhat important 
air, began : “ Speranza told me yesterday everything about her- 
self and Battista.” 

“ I know she did, and I am glad of it. You have raised her 
spirits, and she looks less unhappy already. I have this moment 
read poor Battista’s letter.” 

“We must help them,” said Lucy, eagerly ; “and you must 
advise me what to do. All Speranza told me is true, is it not, 
and Battista is really a good man ?” 

“ Yes,” said Antonio, “ he is an excellent lad, what we Italians 
call di huona pasta, quiet and simple, insomuch that I have some- 
times wondered how such a lively and clever girl as Speranza 
became so strongly attached to him ; folly, after all, to wonder 
at such things. Suffice to say, that all Bordighera is unanimous 
in speaking well of the unlucky fellow, — and praising one’s neigh- 
bor, you know, is not the distinguishing virtue of small places. 
As to the accuracy of Speranza’s statements, of that I am 
not quite so sure. Not that I mean that Speranza deceived you 
wilfully — she is incapable of that ; but she and Rosa, and Batr 
tista himself, and indeed, I may say, nine-tenths of the inhabitants 
of Bordighera, entertain certain false notions of their own on 


Lucy’s Scheme. 


161 


Ihis case, which nothing you can say will ever put out of thea 
heads ; and naturally, Speranza cannot but have given you her 
own erroneous impressions. An article of faith with them all is, 
first, that Battista’s mothc” owing to her having been deserted 
by her husband, was to be considered a widow — in fact, they 
always called her Widow Susan — and Battista consequently a 
widow’s son. Now this may be to a certain extent in the spirit, 
but does not come at all within the letter of the law. Secondly, 
they all believe that the Mayor of Bordighera’s letter, purporting 
that Battista was not to march, constitutes in Battista’s favor an 
official title, in right of which he ought at all events to be 
exempted from the service. And in this also they are mistaken 
The mayor’s letter was nothing but the expression of an individual 
opinion, an act of kindness, and of no legal value whatever, 
Battista’s case stands thus. He drew a number, or to speak 
more correctly, a number was drawn for him, sufficiently high, it 
was thought, to insure his not being drafted away, but which 
ultimately proved not so.” 

Lucy looked as if she did not understand. 

“ Suppose,” exclaimed Antonio, “ that the province to which 
Bordighera belongs, be called upon to furnish ten young men for 
the navy — very well — the^ lad who draws number ‘ twenty ’ is 
considered to be, and in all probability is safe. It nevertheless 
occasionally happens, that out of the ten who have drawn low 
numbers, say from 1 to 10, and are consequently those who by 
right would have to serve, one or two are not of the regulation 
size, one or two more have settled abroad, and are not forth- 
coming, some others are able to prove that they are among the 
exceptions recognized by law, and so on. What is the natural 
consequence ? — for, when the government says, I want ten men, 
ten men must be found one way or the other — the natural c onse- 
qnence is, that those who have high numbers are substituted for 
the ineligible, or missing low numbers This was poor Battista’s 


Doctor Antonio. 


m 

case ; and though at first no one doubted but that his high num 
her would secure him from being taken, yet from the unprece* 
dented exemptions and exclusions that took place in the class to 
which he belonged, it turned out that every one, the mayor 
among others, was mistaken.” 

“ I see it all now,” said Lucy, “ and judging from what you 
have just said, I fancy that the charge Speranza brings against 
the commandant of San Remo, of having, out of revenge, caused 
Battista’s misfortune, has no ground but in her imagination.” 

“ I am inclined to think so,” answered Antonio ; “ that much 
partiality and injustice is shown, in general, by worthy command- 
ants in this matter of the conscription, as in most others, is a 
fact of notoriety beyond all doubt, and which explains the pre- 
conceptions entertained on this head by Speranza and Co. The 
commandants are too often disposed to abuse their power. But 
nothing in the particular case of which we are speaking, hag 
come to my knowledge which entitles me to say that Battista’g 
difficulties are in any way to be laid at the door of the commandant 
of San Remo. Let us try and be just even to our adversaries.” 

“ Is this commandant hostile to you ?” asked Lucy in some 
little alarm. 

“ Oh, not at all I though I may be dubious as to his private 
sentiments being over-friendly, we are, to all appearances, or 
excellent terms. I will tell you one day to what I am indebted 
for this show of good will. When I called him my adversary, I 
meant in a political point of view. He is of course a most violent 
partisan of pure despotism, indeed, one of the fiercest I ever met 
with He foams at the mouth when he speaks of the liberals; h« 
would willingly hang the last of them with his own hands ” 

“ What a monster 1” exclaimed Lucy. 

“ But if I acquit him,” pursued Antonio, “ on the ground ol 
conspiracy against Battista, I have no words to expres? mj 
mdignation at the gratuitously harsh, nay, barbarous manner 


Lucy’s Scheme. 


153 


and for that I hold him responsible, with which he had the ?aw 
enforced — a law pressing hard enough upon the poor without 
need of aggravation. What reason could there be for keeping 
the poor fellow a week in the jail of San Remo, denying him 
even the comfort of seeing those two poor women, and sending 
him with a guard of carbineers to Genoa, like a malefactor, 
unless it was to gratify an old grudge V’ 

“ How very cruel I” said Lucy, with flashing eyes. Surely, 
if such conduct were made public, or the people of the town 
were to petition the government, he would be at once removed.” 

“ You forget that we are in Italy,” said Antonio, with a sad 
smile. “ Such conduct is public. The commandants, my dear 
Miss Davenne, are but the expression of the spirit of the 
government, and, as such, supported and backed by it to the 
utmost. What do you imagine would be the result of such 
a petition as you suggest ? Why, it would be sent back to the 
commandant himself, and then the petitioners might look to 
themselves.” 

** Why, what could he do to them ?” asked Lucy. 

** Ask rather what he could not. He could do anything he 
chose. We are all at his mercy. He can arbitrarily summon 
any one to his presence, load him with abuse, consign him to a 
prison, or march him away to a fortress, without trial or legal 
form of any kind ; — he can order the shop of one tradesman to 
be closed, the license of another to be withdrawn ; — he can, by 
sending two lines to Turin, have me dismissed from the appoint- 
ment I hold, and expelled from the kingdom ; — he can stick a 
hat on a pole, and, Gesler-like, command every one that passes 
to bow to it. If he does not do this, it is not that he lacks the 
power, but that the idea does not come into his head.” 

** But you describe a state of things quite intolerable,” said 
Lucy. 

^‘Intolerable is the word,” went on Antonio, “at least fer 

I* 


154 


Doctor Antonio. 


thinking people. The unthinking, who constitute the majority 
everywhere, feel it less. The obscurity of the greater numbei 
screens them, to some extent, from annoyance, and res angusta 
domi, with the cares it entails, engrosses most of them too much 
to allow of time or disposition to think of anything but their 
individual concerns ; then the priests assert that it is all right 
Bat we are wandering far from Battista.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” smiled Lucy, “ we were quite forgetting him 
Now, give me your advice, or rather tell me how I can best help 
him.” 

“ Alas !” said Antonio, “ I see no way but one.” 

“ And what is that ?” inquired Lucy, finding Doctor Antonio 
stop short. 

“ To provide a substitute for him,” said he. 

“You mean paying some one to serve in Battista’s plajce.” 

“ Just so ; but that is quite out of the question.” 

“ Why out of the question ? Will it cost so very much ? 1 

will do it if I can,” said the eager girl. “ Now, Doctor Antonio, 
what have I said to make you open your eyes so wide, and look 
80 astonished ?” 

“ I confess that your kindness and generosity take me a little 
by surprise.” 

“ Oh, Doctor Antonio, Doctor Antonio, what a bad compli- 
ment 1” said Lucy, shaking her head. “ Have we not often 
agreed that it is the duty of the rich to help the poor ?” 

“ So it is,” said Antonio, recovering his sedateness. “ Thank 
Heaven there exists a better order of beings, for whom doing 
good is a necessity of their nature.” 

“ That is just what I thought of you many a time, and I have 
a right to think so,” said Lucy, with a playfulness that straggled 
vith the tears that would start into her eyes ; “ and you have ru 
fight to say me nay. Do you think,” she went on quickly, “ that 
it would be difficult to find this substitute ?” 


Lucy’s Scheme. 


J56 


“ I cannot be sure ; but I hope not. I heard a short Vfhile 
ago of a seaman of Spedaletti, a village close by, whose time 
had expired, and who was said to be anxious to re-enter the 
service.” 

Would he require a large sum j) take Battista^s place ?” 

“ I should say from fifteen to eighteen hundred francs.” 

“ And how much is that in English money ?” 

“ From sixty to seventy-two pounds.” 

“ That is not so very much,” said Lucy, “ I do not think that 
I have it actually in my purse ; but I can afford the sum.” 

Hutchins was desired to bring Miss Davenne’s desk ; and upon 
examination of the state of the exchequer, the balance was found 
to be thirty pounds, seventeen shillings, and some pence. “ I 
will ask papa for the rest,” said the young lady ; “ the whole 
sum shall be ready to-morrow. Will you set about this matxer 
directly, so as not to lose another day ?” . 

“ Most willingly,” was Antonio’s answer. “ My first step 
shall be to find out the man that was mentioned to me. If ho 
be really willing to re-enter the service, we will despatch him 
immediately to Genoa, with fifty francs for his travelling ex- 
penses. The rest of the sum we agree to give can be deposited 
in the hands of some person at Genoa, the British Consul, for 
instance, to be paid over when the exchange is effected. You 
must make up your mind to some delay ere this can take place. 
There are hosts of formalities to be complied with in this as in 
any other affair. But not a word to Speranza ; we must have 
a care how we raise her hopes, for were our scheme to fail, 
we should have only prepared too bitter a disappointment for 
her.” 

“ Then you think there ’s a chance of our not succeeding ?” 
inquired Lucy, with a blank face. 

“ Yes,” replied Antonio ; “ should the commandant get scent 
of our plan, and take it into his head to oppose us, we she old 


156 


Doctor Antonio. 


infallibly be defeated. We have therefore to act 'with the 
greatest caution.” 

How sweet to Lucy’s ears sounded the words ov/r scheme 
wt must do this or that I How pleasant it was to have an 
interest in common with that kindest of doctors I 

“ When the right time comts, I shall have to lecture both 
Battista and the substitute on the danger of any imprudent 
talking,” said Antonio ; “ in the meanwhile, I must write a word 
of encouragement to the lad, I will do so this very day.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lucy ; and seeing that the doctor was 
about to rise, she added, “ I have not done yet Doctor Antonio : 
I want to know what was that far, far olf place to which Battista 
went ?” 

“ Sydney,” said the doctor, “ in the country of Tijtodes ;” and 
he laughed outright. 

“ And of what complaint did Speranza’s father die ?” 

‘‘ Of a complaint of which you never would remember the hard 
scientific name ; one that prevents the stomach from assimilating 
any nutriment. As sufferers from this disease are always crav- 
ing for food, and yet grow thinner every day, the good folks of 
these parts have settled it, that it is a beast or bird in their 
stomach that devours all they eat. Did not Speranza tell you 
as much ?” 

“ She did, in fact ; and pray,” continued Lucy, what does 
‘ going to the wood * mean ? Speranza spoke of it so often.” 

“ Almost all our parishes,” explained Antonio, “ possess some 
woods of their own, which are a great help to poor families, who 
draw from them not only the fuel and fodder they require for 
their use, but realize a little money, by supplying these, two 
necessaries to their more affluent neighbors. This hard work of 
going to the wood devolves exclusively on women : it is, how- 
ever, the only severe labor to which they are subjected. It ii 
"sual for the wives and daughters of poor peasants to start ag 


157 


Lucy’s Scheme. 

early as one or two in the morning for the wood, which is often 
a two or three hours’ walk from where they live, so as to be 
back by ten* o’clock, in time to prepare the family dinner, after 
earning fivepence or sixpence — a pittance equal to the wages 
paid for a woman’s whole day’s out-of-door work. There are 
some girls — and these are always pointed out with admiration — 
who manage to go to the wood twice a day. This, and the 
gathering of olives in the season, constitute the chief occupation 
and resource of the women here ; and it is to the want of sleep, 
and excessive fatigue consequent on this going to the wood, that 
I ascribe the fact of many of them looking so worn and old 
before their time.” 

And,” asked Lucy, “ this Madonna of Lampedusa alluded 
to in Battista’s letter ?” 

** It is a sanctuary,” answered Antonio, “ held in high venera- 
tion, and much resorted to by om* simple people on account of 
an image of our Lady enshrined there, and which, as the story 
goes, was miraculously brought to these shores from Lampedusa, 
a little island to the south of Sicily. It is a place worth visiting: 
the chapel is built on a projectiug rock, half-way up a steep 
mountain, and the view from it is magnificent.” 

I. should like to see it,” said Lucy. 

“ Nothing easier, when you are able to go out ; the distance 
is not great, four hours would take you there. Several rooms 
are attached to the establishment for the accommodation of 
visitors and invalids, who are often sent to benefit by the air, 
which has a reputation for particular salubrity.” 

Have you ever been there yourself ?” 

** Many a time. It is only an hour’s walk from Taggia — a 
curious small town about two miles inland, three hours’ drive 
from this, and where I was yesterday. By-the-bye, I made a 
sketch of it for you. Where is it now ? I put it somewheie— 
ah I here it is in my hat.” 


158 


Doctor Antonio. 


“ How well it is done I” exclaimed Lncj^ , ‘ I was smie ;jroi 
could draw, from the way you spoke of scenery. What a 
pretty place this Taggia must be, stretching so gracefully up the 
side of the hill 1” 

“ I am glad you admire it — the place, I mean, not the sketch. 
I hope to see you do it more justice yourself — some day. But I 
must go now, or I shall be too late to send off a letter to Bat- 
tista. Au revoir” 

In crossing the garden Antonio met Sir John, and stopped to 
tell him that the arm-chair he had planned would be ready in a 
few days, and that the person who was to make it had pro- 
nounced that it would answer the purpose. Sir John reiterated 
his thanks, and then condescended to inquire after the post-boy 
— an inquh’y always made when Sir John wished to be particu- 
larly civil to Doctor Antonio. Prospero was a sort of neutral 
ground, on which the belligerent powers met in courteous truce. 
Prospero, said Antonio, had crawled out of bed, but was as yet 
unfit for work in any shape. Would Doctor Antonio be so 
obliging, requested Sir John, as to inform that unlucky person, 
that, in consideration of the good character given him by Doctor 
Antonio, he. Sir John, had made up his mind to take no further 
notice of the deplorable affair in which tlie post-boy had played 
so conspicuous a part ? Antonio did his best to acknowledge 
the compliment to himself couched in Sir John’s words, and said 
how glad he was to be intrusted with so kind and cheering a 
message for his patient. Upon which the two gentlemen sepa- 
rated, much satisfied with each other 

In the evening Lucy gave her father an outline of poor Bat- 
tista’s Story, telling of his present sad plight, and winding up 
with a demand of some money to help him The demand was 
immediately acceded to. Sir John being really as generous as he 
was rich ; indeed, he seldom grudged money to anybody, least 
of all to his pet daughter. The grant of money was not all that 


Lucy's Scheme. 


159 


Lucy received from her excellent father — came accompanied 
by a large amount of advice, the essence of which was, that she 
ought to make further investigations into the man’s real charac- 
ter, in order to ascertain that he deserved her kindness ; for who 
knew, said Sir John, that he might not be one of those blood- 
thirsty republicans, never content but when in open defiance of 
all lawful authority, of whom they had heard so much when at 
Rome I How on earth came Sir John, apropos of Battista, to 
start off upon the scent of republicanism ? The fault was Lucy’s, 
who, in her hot haste to vindicate her new prot%e, had ven- 
tured on dangerous ground, and stumbled against some of the 
steel traps that beset her father’s intellectual premises. Some of 
his pretty Lucy’s assertions hit the commandant at San Remo 
rather hard, and even seemed to glance at higher quarters. Sir 
John, knowing himself as most people do know themselves, 
ihought himself a liberal-minded man, and always open to con- 
'detion ; but the truth was, that he could not hear any, the 
slightest animadversion thrown upon any constituted order of 
government, or indeed upon any government officer, without 
bristling like a porcupine, and setting up the whole array of 
fretful quills that guarded his understanding from the intrusion 
of novelty in any shape. His daughter’s innuendoes startled him 
the more, as he was unaccustomed to see her take any interest 
in politics, and he began to think that the whole transaction 
smacked of disaffection. It was accordingly in a tone of voice 
a pitch higher than he was in the habit of using when speaking 
to his darling, that he wound up his discourse by saying, “As to 
those absurd strictures on government with which you have 
favored me, my dear Lucy, let me tell you, and you may tell 
Doctor Antonio, from whom I suppose you gleaned them, that 
a people in possession of a good municipal system, such as I see 
m action here, have no one to blame but themselves, if weV 


m 


Doctor Antonio. 


occasional grievances, as all communities are liable to, are not 
redressed in good time.” 

This was one out of a little store of favorite sentences which 
Sir John kept for effect, and delivered when in a vein of wisdom. 
What ground he had for believing that the municipal system at 
work in Bordighera was good, we are at a loss to discover, consi- 
dering that he had taken no earthly pains to know anything 
about the matter, unless, indeed, he took it for granted that a 
system represented by such jolly-looking fellows as the mayor, 
and some of the councHmen, whom he knew by sight, could be 
nothing else than wholesome. 

Lucy had winced several times during the evening’s conversa- 
tion ; she, however, remained, after the last speech, humbly 
silent, a better means, perhaps, of allaying the irritable suscepti- 
bility of her father’s feelings, than any answer, even in the soft, 
low voice she possessed. Neither did she think it necessary to 
repeat to Doctor Antonio any of Sir John’s last evening’s 
harangue when he came, brisk and cheerful, the next morning, to 
give her the news she was longing for, that the man he had 
spoken of was found, and for fourteen hundred francs had agreed 
to go in the place of Battista, and was positively to set out the 
following day for Genoa. Lucy’s eyes said many more pleasant 
and grateful things than her words, as she gave into his hand 
the money, which they decided should be sent to the British 
consul at Genoa. They were both very happy, talking over the 
happiness they were preparing for others, and even Sir John 
might be satisfied for that day : the government, indeed all 
governments and municipal systems, were mercifully forgotten 


In the Balcony. 


161 


Chapter X. 

In the Balcony. 

The easy chair of Antonio’s devising at length arrived, and 
iras duly tried by Sir John, who pronounced it to be the paragon 
of easy-chairs. Sundry other minor preparations connected with 
the event in contemplation, and among which figured a huge 
box of drawing materials, supplied from Nice, being completed, 
on the first day of May, about noon, Doctor Antonio entered 
Miss Davenne’s room, and said, “ Prepare yourself for a great 
surprise.” 

“ What can that be ?” asked Lucy ; “ then looking up at him, 
she seemed to read his face, for her color rose, and she said, 
“ Am I to get up ?” 

^^BravaP^ shouted Antonio, “guessed right at first. La 
lingua hatte dove it dente duok. Yes, you are to get up, but ou 
condition of submitting to a quantity of tiresome warnings, 
directions, and restrictions. You are not allowed to walkj not 
so much as to put your foot on the ground ; it requires another 
fortnight of absolute repose. You only get up to lie down 
quietly on that long chair that Rosa and Speranza are bringing 
In, and are expressly requested to give yourself up passively 
to them, and to Miss Hutchins, who will dress you. You are 
not disappointed after all ?” he asked, anxiously, as he marked 
♦he bloom in the fair cheek die away, and the corners of the 




162 


Doctor Antonio. 


expressive month begin to droop. “ I wish that I could let yon 
do more, but I dare not.” 

Lucy must ha^e had a harder heart than she had, could she 
ha\ e been proof against the earnest and feeling tone and look of 
the Italian. The little cloud of annoyance melted into a sunny 
smile, — “ I am very ungrateful,” she said, forgive me ;” and she 
held out her hand to him — such a charming little hand, that he 
felt a terrible inclination to kiss it ; he contented himself, how- 
ever, with holding it for a second within his ovm. An liour 
after. Sir John giving a helping hand in great glee, Lucy was 
wheeled through the glass door of the lobby to the balcony we 
have so often mentioned in this our true story, where an awning 
had been put up to protect her from the sun. 

“ How beautiful ! how passing beautiful !” exclaimed the 'rirl, 
her eyes dilating as she looked around. “ IIow could you ever 
Jear, or for a moment think,” turning to the doctor, “ that my 
fancy could go beyond such reality as this ? No fancy, not even 
a poet^s, could conjure up, in wildest day-dream, this wondrous 
Deauty.” 

“Truth to say,” he answered, “I was only a very little afraid 
of your being disappointed. Sicilian as I am, and an enthusiast 
also in my admiration of my native island, yet I own that the 
scene before us is second to none of the most celebrated in Sicily.” 

“ What an Eastern look those weaving palms give the hill of 
Bordighera 1 One might believe one’s self in Asia Minor,” said 
Lucy. 

It was indeed a beauteous scene. In front lay the immensity 
of sea, smooth as glass, and rich with all the hues of a dove’s 
neck, the bright green, the dark purple, the soft ultramariut, 
the deep blue of a blade of burnished steel, — there glancing in 
the sun like diamonds, here rippling into a lace-like net of snowy 
foam. In strong relief against this bright back-giound, stands a 
group of red-capped, red-belted fishermen, drawing their nets 


In the Balcony. 


163 


to the shore, and accompanying each pull with a plaintive 
burden, that the echo of the mountain sends softened back. On 
the right, to the westward, the silvery track of the road undulat- 
ing amid thinly scattered houses, or clusters of orange and palm- 
trees, leads the eye to the promontory of Bordigliera, a huge 
emerald mound which shuts out the horizon, much in the shape 
of a leviathan couchant, his broad muzzle buried in the waters 
Here you have in a small compass, refreshing to behold, every 
shade of green that can gladden the eye, from the pale grey 
olive to the dark foliaged cypress, of which one, ever and anon, 
an isolated sentinel, shoots forth high above the rest. Turfs of 
feathery palms, their heads tipped by the sun, the lower part in 
shade, spread their broad branches, like warriors’ crests on the 
top, where the slender silhouette of the towering church spire cuts 
shai-ply against the spotless sky. 

The coast to the east recedes inland with a graceful curve, 
then with a gentle bend to the south is lost by degrees in the 
far, far sea. Three headlands arise from this crescent, which so 
lovingly receives to its embrace a wide expanse of the weary 
waters ; three headlands of differing aspect and color, lying one 
behind the other. The nearest is a bare red rock, so fiery in the 
sun the eye dares scarcely fix on it ; the second, richly wooded, 
wears on its loftiest ridge a long hamlet, like to a mural crown ; 
the third looks a mere blue mist in the distance, save one white 
speck. Two bright saUs are rounding this last cape. The 
whole, flooded as it is with light, except where some projecting 
crag casts its transparent grey shadow, is seen again reversed, 
and in more faint loveliness, in the watery mirror below. Earth, 
sea, and sky mingle their different tones, and from their varieties, 
as from the notes of a rich, full chord, rises one great harmony. 
Golden atoms are floating in the translucent ah, and a halo of 
mother-of-pearl color hangs over the sharp outlines of the moun- 
tains. 


164 


Doctor Antonio. 


“There is ample food for your pencil,” said Aitonio. “A 
fortnight hence, when yon have become intimately acquainted 
with, and so to say, made your own the various beauties you are 
now viewing with such restless eyes, you will enjoy them to the 
nil.” 

“ But I do so already, I assure you,” affirmed Lucy. 

“ But will do so better in a little while,” persisted Antonio 
“ The perception of the beautiful is gradual, and not a lightning 
revelation; it requires not only time, but some study. It is with 
a landscape such as this as with a piece of music, say a sym- 
phony. Many a beauty of detail can we make on a first hearing, 
but the connecting links between the various passages, their 
reference to each other, and to the whole, what, in short, consti- 
tutes the ensemble of the performance, does not seize upon as till 
after we have heard it repeatedly and attentively.” 

“ I daresay you are right,” said Lucy, who generally thought 
Antonio right. “ I wonder,” she went on, “ why anything 
eastern-looking always takes such a hold on one^s fancy. I 
cannot take my eyes from those palm-trees, they make me think 
of crusades and knights all mixed up with Scripture stories.” 

“ Fancy borrows much from memory,” said Antonio ; “ and so 
looks back to the past. Stories first heard standing at a mother’s 
knee, are never wholly forgotten, — a little spring that never quite 
dries up in our journey through scorching years.” 

“ I love this Bordighera I” said Lucy, after a little pause, 

“ Beautiful as it is,” remarked Antonio, “ it robs you of a most 
extensive and magnificent view of the coast of France.” 

“ I do not regret it at all,” answered Lucy ; “ a wide-spread 
landscape puzzles my attention, and then I never can keep my eye 
from straining to the horizon. The sea and the heavens are the 
only large spaces one really enjoys.” 

“ Very true,” said Antonio ; “ you have the soul of an 
artist.” 


In the Balcony. 166 

*’ I wish it w<»re so,” said Lucy, slightly coloring. 

“ Now for my duty of cicerone,” said the doctor, good 
humoredly. “You see that small village at the foot of the 
craggy mountain, it is called Spedaletti, and gives its name t 
the gulf.” 

“ What an odd name, Sjpedahtti ! it means little hospitals, 
does it not ?” 

“ Yes. A friend of mine, who prides himself on being some- 
what of an antiquarian, pretends to have ascertained the origin 
of the name. He says, that a ship belonging to the Knights of 
Rhodes (some of those you were thinking of just now), while on 
a cruise in the Mediterranean, I forget the century, landed some 
men sick of the plague here, where barracks were erected for 
their reception ; and these same buildings, according to my 
friend, served as the first nucleus of the present village, which he 
avers has naturally retained the name of their first destination. 
To give some weight to my friend’s opinion, there are at a little 
distance the ruins of'u chapel called the ‘ Ruota,’ which may or 
may not be a corruption of Rodi (Rhodes) I” 

“ And are there still hospitals there ?” Lucy inquired. 

“ No ; Spedaletti in the present day is exclusively inhabited 
by the healthy families of very industrious fishermen, who never 
want for occupation. Nature, which made this bay so lovely, 
made it equally safe and trustworthy. Sheltered.on the west by 
the Cape of Bordighera, and on the east by those three head- 
lands, let the sea be ever so high without, within it is com- 
paratively calm, and the fishermen of Spedaletti are out in all 
weathers.” 

“ And what is the name of that village perched so boldly on 
the brow of the second mountain, just above Spedaletti ? Haa 
that a story also ?” 

“ It is appropriately called La Colla (the hill). I doubt 
whether you will think it interesting to know, of course I do, thal 


166 


Doctor Antonio. 


while the cholera was raging fearfully at San Remo, wlicb lies 
at the foot of the other side of the mountain, not one case was 
heard of at La Colla.” 

“ Such a thing must have appeared very like a miracle to the 
inhabitants,” observed Lucy. 

“ That there was plenty of nonsense talked on the subject, I 
have not the least doubt. The extremely elevated situation of 
La Colla accounts very well for its escape. But a more striking 
and really inexplicable fact is, that the fatal scourge did not get 
round that second cape, the Cape of San Remo, but leaped at 
once to Nice, sparing all the intermediate tract of country. 
Confess,” pursued Antonio, smiling, “ that La Colla seems very 
matter of fact to you in comparison with Spedaletti. Knights 
and the plague take precedence, do they not, of the cholera and 
doctors ?” 

“ I will answer you,” said Lucy, “ in the Irish fashion, by ask 
ing another question. Is that white speck gleaming out so 
brightly on that far away promontory, a convent ?” 

“That is another sanctuary, the Madonna della Guardia^ a 
would-be rival of that of Lampedusa, but beaten hollow by the 
latter.” 

“ Are all sanctuaries, then, dedicated to the Madonna ?” 

“Almost all. The Madonna is the great passion of oui 
people. To me, I openly avow, there is something extremely 
touching in this, call it superstition if you like, which deifies 
woman, and makes of her the channel through which compassion 
and mercy from on high flow to suffering mortals here below. It 

the highest compliment paid to your better nature.” 

“ Do you truly think that women are better than men ?” 

“ My instinctive feeling is that they are,” replied Antonio ; 
“ but to speak candidly, I cannot boast of sufficient experience 
of woman, or, indeed, of men, to be able to decide the point » 
cathedra This I do know, that of all my fellow creatures, wit! 


In the Balcony. 


167 


whom it has yet been my lot to come in close contact, the one I 
have found far superior to all, is a woman.” 

Why such a statement, calculated, one would have thought, to 
please her woman^s pride, should have chilled Lucy, and made 
her silent, we do not pretend to guess. Sure it is that it did so, 
and that she sat, long after the -doctor was gone, unmindful of 
sea or landscape, of books or pencil, lost in what seemed a 
melancholy reverie. Poor little Lucy 1 she was startled from her 
thoughts by Sir John coming to her with a letter in his hand. 
It was from Aubrey, to say that he had been obliged to post- 
pone his departure on account of regimental business, and that he 
knew not, under the circumstances, when he should be able to 
get away, not for four months, certainly, but that he would 
write again to let his father know. Lucy bore this piece of news 
very philosophically. 

“ After all, papa, it is only four months, and one comfort is, 
we need not be in such a hurry to leave this.” 

“ Well,” replied Sir John, “ as it turns out, perhaps we may 
call this delay lucky ; — yes, after all, this news takes a weight 
off my mind ; — it would have been a dreary welcome for my boy 
to find none but servants in his home. We can travel slowly, 
and stop a short time in Paris ” 

“ Oh, papa I” said Lucy, “ I do not care a bit about Paris ; 
let us stay in this beautiful Italy as long as we can.” 

“ But, my dear,” replied, rather fretfully, the baronet, who did 
not like so many scotches put to his plans, “ I wish you to know 
something of Paris, it is right and proper. We went through it 
so hurriedly last year, and you were so ill at the time, that you 
could scarcely form an idea of it.” And after a little inward 
cogitation, as if discussing some point with himself, he added, 
** Though vastly inferior to London, still Paris is a place to spend 
a few weeks in rather agreeably ; there are some things wortl 
seeing in Paris ; the Champs Elysdes, for instance, alinough nu 
to be compared tO Hyde Park.” 


168 


Doctor Antonio. 


Bat this first of May was destined to be a red letter day with 
Sir John, the result of whose summing up of the comparative 
merits of the two great cities was never made public, in conse- 
quence of an interruption from his man John, who announced 
that there was a man below who wanted to see Sir John. Where 
(lid he come from ? The man had mentioned Doctor Antonio^s 
name, and John thought he looked like a horse-dealer. “A 
horse-dealer I” cried the baronet ; and he ran down the steps 
with an alacrity that would have done honor to more juvenile 
legs than his were. 

Any one in Sir John’s predicament, any one, we mean, who, 
being accustomed to a daily ride, had been cut off from his 
favorite exercise for nearly a month, will easily understand how 
the very mention of a horse-dealer sounded as welcome in Sir 
John’s ears as the rushing of water in the ears of a thirsty way- 
farer. He had two horses sent him successively from Nice, the 
first of which was soon discovered to be lame, the second so 
vicious as to be perfectly unmanageable ; and the upshot was, 
that he had given up riding in despair. 

The man turned out to be really a horse-dealer on his way to 
Genoa with horses for sale, first-rate animals, hestk magnifichty as 
he said. The conversation was kept up in a sort of lingua 
Frmcha, by which, however, Babel-like, the principals managed 
to understand one another. Of course, it was “ il Dottore ” who 
had said the “ Signor Milordo Inglese ” would like to see the 
horses ; they were at so short a distance that “ Sua Eccellenza ” 
could almost see the stables ; and the cunning fellow stood on 
his toes, and pointed somewhere or nowhere. However, he 
carried away Sir John in triumph, accompanied by John, who 
passed with his master for being a thorough connoisseur in horse- 
flesh ; and in a couple of hours after, to Lucy’s utter astonish' 
ment and delight, her father made his re-appearance under her 
balcony, mounted on a square-made, handsome-looking bay cob, 
warranted quiet as a lamb, which he properly was, as he uum- 


In the Balcony. 169 

bered a good third more of years than the dealer had sworn 
to. 

“ I hope he really is quiet,” cried out Lucy, rather alarmed at 
her father’s gay manoeuvring. 

A baby might ride him,” answered Sir John, who had for a 
year or two felt the necessity of avoiding cara-'^oling spirited 
steeds. “ See what a mouth he has, Lucy, he obeys the least 
touch and suiting the action to the word, the enchanted 
baronet turned and returned the cob, till Lucy called out, 
“ Papa, papa, you will make yourself and the poor beast quite 
giddy.” 

While this was going on, a lad in a post-boy’s jacket, and hat 
in hand came stealthily through the little garden gate, and after 
a moment’s hesitation, went up to Sir John, who immediately 
reined in his steed. This was Prospero, who, in his humble way, 
was about to contribute his mite towards the baronet’s gratifica- 
tion on this memorable day. Though Prospero’s heartfelt thanks 
were delivered in a jargon which had no meaning for Sir John’s 
ears, there was that in the poor lad’s voice -and look which con- 
veyed to the English gentleman’s mind as clear a perception of 
what the Italian said and meant, as if he had spoken English 
like John. The pale countenance and emaciated form were an 
emphatic accompaniment to his simple eloquence. Sir John 
was moved, and to hide that he was moved, he immediately 
began in a blustering tone to read the boy a lecture on the 
duties of post-boys to travellers in general, and to travellers of a 
tertain sort in particular. This harangue being denuded of all 
that expressive pantomime of look and gesture, which would 
have made patent to any understanding the lad’s address, fell 
heavily on the uncomprehending ears of Prospero, who, twirling 
his hat, and with eyes fixed to the ground, looked very like the 
criminal Sir John described him to be. 

In this crisis, just when the baronet, still on the back of hi# 

8 


170 


Doctor Antonio. 


cob, was beginiiing to be puzzled bow to conclude the scene wit I 
dignity, his eye lighted on Doctor Antonio, who had walked up 
to the Osteria to see the purchase, of which by this time all the 
parish had heard. 

“ My dear doctor,” cried out Sir John, in a hearty voice, ‘‘ I 
very glad to see you ; I am under infinite obligation to you.” 
Doctor Antonio to be called “ my dear doctor,” in that bluff, 
sincere way by Sir John Davenne I It was the first time, so no 
wonder Antonio pondered on the words. He begged of Sir 
John not to talk of obligations, and congratulated him warmly 
on the lucky chance that had secured him such a capital beast. 
John came up at this point, and announced to his master that 
the stable wherein he used to keep the former two horses, for 
some reason or other could not be had for a week, at least, — an 
intelligence which marred not a little the good old gentleman^s 
satisfaction. Seeing which, the kind doctor took the repentant^ 
looking Prospero aside, and after a minute’s parley with him, 
turned to the baronet and said, that at the house where the 
lad Uved, there was a tolerably good stable, and that, perhaps, 
it would be a convenience to Sir John, and most certainly an 
act of charity on his part, to entrust the care of the horse to 
Prospero, who, when able to resume his duty as post-boy, had a 
younger brother to act as groom in his place. The baronet 
caught at once at the proposal, and Prospero, not a little elated 
at this piece of good fortune, helped to dismount his new “ Signor 
Padrone,” who delivered the cob to his care, with special direo* 
tions to be every morning by seven o’clock at the Osteria, to 
receive daily orders. 

Lucy, who from the balcony could hear and see all that waa 
passing below, had followed all the incidents of this little epi- 
iode with an intensity of interest, which, to an indifferent 
observer, could not but have appeared unwarranted by the occa* 
Bion ; and when Sir John had called Antonio “m^ dear doctor,” 


In the Balcony. 


171 


A flash of complacency had overspread her white cheek, and her 
smile became sweeter and sweeter. After all, it was but natu- 
ral, that, kind-hearted as she was, the better understanding 
which was evidently growing up between her father and her 
doctor should give her pleasure. 

“ How kind of you I” said Lucy to Antonio, as he went up to 
her, and took a seat by her side. 

“ Kind 1 how do you mean ?” asked Antonio, his eyebrows 
bristling up like a hedgehog who puts himself on the defensive. 

To think about the horse,’’ exclaimed Lucy., 

“Hal ha 1 ha I” and the Italian forthwith opened his safety- 
valve against the charges of kindness, that is — he laughed his 
own peculiar laugh, a clear, merry laugh, with something still in 
it of boyhood’s ring. “ But suppose I have not been thinking 
about it, what then ?” 

Lucy’s eyes looked incredulous. 

“ When some time ago you expressed a wish that your father 
could have a horse, I mentioned the subject in a letter I was 
writing at the moment, and then, I am afraid, I forgot all about 
the matter ; so you see, you have only to be grateful to a lucky 
chance.” 

“ And did this easy-chair and awning for a foolish girl, who 
showed her gratitude by being cross and impatient, come here 
by chance, too ?” 

“ There again,” said Antonio, throwing back his head with a 
movement usual with him when annoyed, “as if such common 
courtesies were worth making a fuss about. At this rate, if 1 
sneeze, and a neighbor says, ‘ God bless you,’ I am bound to hia 
for life.” 

Lucy could not help laughing at the oddity of the illustration, 
and asked, “ May I, without giving offence, express my admira- 
tion of the beautiful workmanship of this chair, and of thi 
bright yellow wood of which it is made V* 


172 


Doctor Antonio. 


** Yes, you may,” replied Antonio, smiling, “ it always does 
me good to hear the people or things of this country praised. 
The chair is of olive wood, and is the work of a very clever 
fellow. If we ever go to Taggia together, I will show you 
pieces of furniture of the same wood, and by the same hand, 
shat I dare say would not be out of place even in Davenne 
‘Jail.” 

Such a clever workman,” said Lucy, “ ought to go to London, 
lie would be sure of making a fortune there.” 

Very likely,” answered Antonio, “but he does not seem to 
feel the necessity of making one. The people of the Riviera are 
extremely attached to their birthplace, and stick to their homes 
and quiet habits, seldom going abroad unless compelled by want. 
Besides, our chair-maker is something more than a skillful work- 
man, he is an artist.” 

“ I can understand any one being reluctant to leave this,” 
said Lucy, “ much more any one with an artist’s eye and 
feelings. Where could he find a nature like this ?” and her 
own eyes gleamed with deep rapture. Antonio was watching 
her ; for all answer he said, “the open air has done you good 
already, you look more — lively than this morning.” 

“ Do I ? I feel so well and happy ; and it is said, you know, 
that happiness does a great deal for one’s looks.” 

Antonio threw up those black eyes of his into Lucy’s soft 
blue ones, but made no remark. The look and the silence 
embarrassed Lucy, she knew not why, but she felt as if called 
upon for some explanation, which rather disappointed Antonio 
when it came. 

“ My brother cannot be home for four months, and so now 
papa will not fret about our staying here ; and then I am so 
glad about the horse, and that I am able to sit here and enjoy 
this beautiful view. Have I not a right to feel happy ?” 

“ To be sure,” said Antonio, rather gravely, and stroking hia 


In the Balcony. 


ITS 


beard, ** to be sure.” What had he missed in the enumeration 

Lucy^s causes of happiness ? 

A short pause ensued, during which doctor and patient seemed 
anything but at their ease, “By-the-by,” said the Italian, 
rousing himself, “ I have not seen your drawing, will you show 
it me ?” 

“ It is all in a mess,” said Lucy, with a little blush. “ I can 
make nothing of it ; I am ashamed of myself, and utterly 
disheartened.” 

I guess how it has been,” replied Antonio ; “ you have been 
too greedy. Shall I give you a little advice ? You see that 
half-ruined towar shaded by palm trees, on the Cape of Bor- 
dighera ? — try that first, or that piece of wall with its drapery 
of bitter-sweet, standing forward so well from the background 
of dark blue sea. . Do not bewilder yourself with too many 
objects at once ; and, take my word for it, it will not be long 
before you master strong foregrounds and soft distances. But 
beware of ambition.” 

Vaulting ambition, which overleaps itself and falls,” said 
Lucy, laughing. 

“ That is f^om your Shakspeare,” said Antonio ; “I think all 
English people know him by heart. I never met one of your 
countrymen or women, however ignorant in other respects, who 
did not some time or other give out a line from Shakspeare. 
What a man he must have been, who could thus embody, and 
‘ give a local habitation and a name ^ to the feelings of a whole 
nation foi» centuries to come I” 

You seem as much at home with Shakspej^re as with your 
own poets,” said Lucy. 

“ He w one of my pcets. Shakspeare is not the poet of any 
age or country, but of mankind. He, like the sun, spreads 
light and warmth over the whole world of intellig«aoe. Gat 
you draw figures ?” went on the doctor, pointing to the beach 


174 . Doctor Antonio. 

What a group those fishermen would make, with that woman 
an the donkey stopping to speak to them I” 

“ But 1 cannot draw figures the least bit in the world,” said 
Lucy, in a despairing voice. 

“ Well, you can learn. Figures are so picturesque in Italy, it 
B almost a matter of duty to copy them.” 

“ Yes, but one must know how. 1 am sure I have not an idaa 
how to begin, whether with the hat or the shoes ; and who is 
there here to teach me ?” 

“ If you really wish for a master, I will find you one.” 

“ Can you, indeed ?” then 1 do wish it.” 

“ 1 will introduce you ti a master to-morrow. You have often 
said that you wmuld like to read Dante’s poem with some one 
w^ho could explain and annotate upon it ; now, if you continue in 
that mind, I know of a fit person.” 

“ You seem to have the gift of finding everything I want 
or wish for,” said Lucy, turning a pair ‘ of grateful eyes to 
him. 

“ You were so uncomplaining in your submi^ion to my severe 
orders,” answered Antonio, “ that I feel bound, now that you are 
able to leave your bed, to give you the benefit of all that our 
neighborhood affords, to amuse you ; and I assure you we have 
more resources than at first might be thought possible. Among 
all classes in this country there exists a singular aptitude to learn, 
and much natural taste. For instance, we have a tolerably good 
baud of musicians, most of them self-taught, and an excellent 
organist, who never had any master but himself.” 

“ Wonderful 1” said Lucy ; “and are they as good as they are 
clever ?” 

“ To say the least, they have many good points,” returned 
Antonio ; “ they are sober, independent, and warm-hearted ; 
there is a native mildness in their blood ; and when they quarrel 
— for where is it that men are always at peace with one another? 


In the Balcony. 176 

—the quarrel rarely ends in blows. Yon look fts if yon scarcely 
believed me.” 

Lucy’s color rose, for she felt what Antonio was saying to be 
the very reverse of the character she was in the habit of hearing 
ascribed to Italians. 

“ Forget preconceived notions, or rather,” continued Antonio, 
“ remember all, and compare hearsay evidence with what comes 
under your own observation. Facts are stubborn things. Miss 
Daveune, and observation of facts will show you that amongst us 
there is scarcely an example of wives and daughters bearing the 
marks of the brutality of their husbands and fathers; that drunk- 
enness is a very rare thing, and so is crime ; that there are whole 
provinces — that of San Remo is one — in which no murder has 
been committed within the memory of man. Property is so 
divided, that the two extremes of great riches and great poverty 
are almost unknown, and so, fortunately, are most of the evils 
arising out of them, — beggary for instance. 1 am not speaking 
of the great towns of course, but of the country districts, in which 
nearly every man owns his little bit of land, which he cultivates 
as well as he can. The small proprietor who has time to spare, 
Jres his services to the neighbor, who, possessing more land, 
equires more hands, but both employer and employed deal and 
converse with each other on a footing of perfect equality. The 
hired laborer no more considers himself the inferior of his employer 
because he takes money from him, than the employer thinks him- 
self the laborer’s superior for paying it.” 

“ You are describing a real Arcadia,” said Lucy. 

I wish it were s«,” continued Antonio, shaking his head ; 
“ but there are deep shades to the picture. The baneful action 
of despotism makes itself felt here as everywhere else in Italy. 
The state of utter ignorance in which the populations I am speak- 
ing of are left by a government systematically hostile to all sorts 
of instruction — the worship of the dead letter in lieu of the spirit 


176 


Doctor Antonio. 


that viyified, in which they are nursed and kept by their priesti 
— the habit of dissembling grievances, for which there is no pos- 
sible redress, and which it would be dangerous to resent ; — all 
these deleterious influences combine to keep the standard of 
morality rather low. The man who would not for the world eat 
a morsel of meat on Friday, or miss hearing mass on a saint^s 
day, will not scruple to cheat his master of an hour’s work, or to 
say the thing that is not, to obtain an abatement in the rent he 
pays to his landlord V’ 

“ That is too bad,” said Lucy ; “ and do the priests know of 
such doings, and not try to prevent or put a stop to them ?” 

“ Certainly they do not use their authority to the extent neces- 
sary to cure the evil. They fear to lose their influence if they 
deal, I will not say severely, but firmly with their flock. There 
seems to be a tacit agreement between sheep and shepherds. 
Give us everything in point of form, say the latter. We will, 
answer the former, but on condition that you do not exact too 
much in point of substance. Thus the letter kills the spirit. 
Provided the churches be well attended, the confessionals 
besieged, the alms plentiful, the communion tickets numerous, 
our JReverendi seem to care little whether morality remains 
stationary or even shdes backwards. The cure, who is in many 
respects what I believe you call vicar in England, preaches from 
the pulpit that lying is a sinful habit, and that a hired laborer 
owes a fair day’s work for a fair day’s wages, but to little pur- 
pose. And why is there no amendment? Because the con- 
fessors do not practically support what is preached ; they are too 
lenient, and dare not, textually dare not, refuse absolution to 
those of their penitents who are in a state of backsliding. They 
dare not, because they say, ‘ we do not choose to lose our peni- 
tents,’ and such to a certainty would be the case, were they 
to show" a proper degree of severity. The aim and ambition of 
confessors, you must understand, is to have a great number of 


In the Balcony. 


177 


penitents, and they vie with each other who shall be most run 
after. The country folks know this weakness and profit by it. 
It has happened to me more than once to hear it said, ‘ If my 
confessor will not give me absolution, I shall go to such and such 
a one who has “ larger sleeves,” ^ meaning by that, who is more 
indulgent.’* 

“ These are, indeed, ugly shades to your pretty picture,” 
sighed Lucy. 

“Very ugly,” echoed Antonio. “The great business of our 
Beverendi — there are, of course, many honorable exceptions — is 
the embellishment of their respective churches ; and for this pur- 
pose they take advantage of the taste for the beautiful, which is 
innate in our people. Offerings or contributions flow in plenti- 
fully for the purchase of a new organ, a set of silver lamps, for 
pictures, for the adornment of the shrine of the Madonna. At 
the same time the town is dirty, not lighted at night, the pave- 
ment all holes, the roads are detestable, and bridges absent 
where bridges are most needed. But what does it matter so 
long as the church looks splendid, and outshines this or that 
church in the neighborhood ?” 

“ And how do you fare with these Ileverendi, as you call 
them ?” asked Lucy. 

“ Why, so so ; they are not over friendly to me, I believe, the 
cure especially, who cannot forgive my regularly refusing the 
ticket that he as regularly sends me every Easter.” 

** What is it for ?” 

“ A most vexatious botheration. At Easter, the curds take 
upon themselves to send to every one of their parishioners what 
is called a communion ticket, and they require of every person 
after communicating, to leave this ticket in the vestry as a proof 
of having done so. You can conceive that this species of coer- 
cion is very humiliating — at least I feel it so. Very willing as I 
am to fulfill my religious duties, stni I choose to do so freely, 

8 * 


178 


Doctor Antonio. 


and like a man who judges for himself, not like a boy, on coiL' 
pulsion. So I always send back the ticket.” 

“And the cure is angry with you,” said Lucy, with a littlf 
grave face. 

“Yes, but he keeps his anger to himself. He and his rever 
end brethren give me credit for being a tolerable physician — as 
good, at least, as can be hoped for hereabouts ; but it is not 
their confidence in my medical skill alone that keeps them civil 
to me. Public opinion runs high in my favor, and even here, 
and in spite of all, public opinion has its weight. And then, my 
beard,” continued Antonio, stroking it playfully ; “ is not that 
one of the strongest possible proofs of my favor with our three- 
tailed Pacha, the Commandant of San Remo ?” 

“ How so ?” asked Lucy 

“ It may seem strange, but nevertheless it is true. Miss 
Davenne, that one of the strictest duties, as well as one of the 
most agreeable sports of commandants is to suffer no chin to be 
unshorn ; and mine, I believe, is the only one in all the Riviera 
which can boast of anything like a beard on it. The truth is, 
when I first came to San Remo, I was so occupied by day and 
night, that I literally lacked the time to shave. This reason I 
pleaded to our Gessler, who accepted it, and little by little, and 
by dint of habit, my beard came to be tolerated.” 

“You seem to cafe very much about your beard,” observed 
Miss Davenne, smiling at Antonio’s grave way of speaking 
about it. 

“ I confess I rather do,” he answered, smiling also. “ With- 
out speaking of the time it saves, and other disagreeables, I 
think that, since Nature, who does nothing without a purpose, 
bestowed a beard on man, she meant it as ornamental or useful 
Altogether, it seems to me that every man, but an Italian in 
particular, with his olive complexion, looks better with than 
without a beard. You are laughing at me, but tell me, which dc 


In the Balcony. 


179 


y a prefer, which looks best, one of Vandyck^s neads with its 
b~ard, or a modern close shaven portrait ? I suspect the advan- 
tfi^e lies with the former.” 

“ Yes,” said Lucy, with a little blush, and a little hesitation, 

her own remark to her father on first seeing Doctor Antonio 
started to her memory, “ when living men are like Vandyck^s 
portraits.” 

‘'No reservations,” cried Antonio, “ or I shall think you share 
in the prejudice I have heard exists in England against beards.” 

‘ Oh no, I don’t I” said Lucy ; “ but most English pec^le 
disLke them.” 

“ Well, let them shave ; there’s no accounting for tastes,” 
observed Antonio, with an air of resignation. 

“ You promised once to tell me what made you such a favorite 
with this commandant. By-the-by, does he command all the 
Kiviera ?” 

“No such thing. Every province of this kingdom wears a 
like jewel on its head.” 

“ And in what originated your favor with this one ?” 

“ In a most absurd notion of his. I have often told you that, 
when I came to San Remo, the cholera was at its height. I 
found the commandant panic-stricken, and laboring under a 
fixed idea that he must take the disease. I saw at once the 
necessity of setting his imagination to work the contrary way, 
so I gave him a small phial of camphorated vinegar, with 
directions to smell it a certain number of times a day, assuring 
him that it was an infallible specific against cholera. And he 
believes it to this day,” went on Antonio, with a hearty laugh, 
“ The phial is now empty, and should the cholera re-appear, he 
knows of no one to whom he could apply for a fresh supply of 
this wonderful antidote but myself ; so he is very civil to me, and 
— to my beard.” 

Lucy enjoyed the joke, and laughed so heartily that Antonie 
ioined her till the tears stood in his eyes. 


ISO 


Doctor Antcmia 


chapter XI. 

The 15th of May, 1840. 

A FORTNIGHT has slipped away, during which Lucy's health 
and other matters have been steadily progressing at the Osteria; 
new habits had been formed, new occupations and pursuits 
entered upon — in short, every consecutive day has brought to 
our little colony its fresh supply of pleasurable excitement, and 
increased good-will. 

The weather, to begin with, has been splendid, and Sir John 
has not once missed his morning ride, and is enchanted with Buffy 
(thus Lucy had christened the plump bay cob), whose temper 
and paces. Sir John declares, improve wonderfully with every 
ride ; — an assertion to which the count, who is now a daily visi- 
tor to the Osteria, nods enthusiastic assent, observing that 
really his English friend has had the animal for nothing. By 
what mysterious process these two gentlemen understand one 
another, considering that the stock of spoken signs they have in 
common, is limited to a score or so of French words on either 
side, is a matter of wonder to everybody, most of all, perhaps, 
to themselves. But that they do understand one another, is a 
fact beyond dispute, inasmuch as Sir John professes himself 
highly indebted to his noble friend for the primary idea of a 
project, which engrosses most of Sir John^s time and thoughts, 
and in the realization of which he is greatly assisted by tht 


The 15th of May, 1840. 


181 


count and Doctor Antonio. The project is no other than to 
make a collection of the finest young orange and palm plants to 
be found in the neighborhood, and transplant them to the 
seigneurial seat of all the Davennes. “Yes, I shall build an 
orangery,” says Sir John, “but that’s nothing, I shall build a 
palmary ; Lucy, a palmary I” and exultant Sir John rubs hia 
hands. “ You see, my dear, I shall not only create the thing, 
but the very name of it.” The baronet follows up his scheme 
with ardor ; is in communication with all thfe owners of palm- 
trees in Bordighera — Bordighera that stands unrivalled for 
palm-trees ; rides over to San Remo, where the orange-trees 
are said to have distanced all competitors ; is for ever receiv- 
ing, and, with Lucy acting as a secretary, answering letters 
connected with his plan — ^in short, Sir John gallops both cob 
and hobby-horse to his heart’s content, and to that of all about 
him. 

A 'post-diem celebration of Miss Davenne’s twentieth birthday, 
which, as you remember, she had actually spent in her bed, has 
been the grand event of the fortnight. Wonderful the doings, 
and great the bustle at the Osteria, which is beginning to forget 
its ugliness, and to fancy, like many other plain old things, that 
very fine feathers make very fine birds ; and it cannot be denied 
that Sir John has done his best about the new plumage. Aye, 
a dinner — hybrid, perhaps, between a public and private enter- 
taiiament, and for which Sir John managed to send out printed 
cards of invitation — has been given to the count, and some other 
Botables, among whom figured Doctor Antonio, the mayor, 
several councilmen, the justice of the peace of Bordighera ; and 
in the evening minor luminaries, one of them Lucy’s drawing- 
master. The dinner was on a splendid scale, the late bishop 
of Albenga’s cook surpassed himself ; John could only prove 
equal to himself. Sir John did the honors the more charn - 
ingly that he did not do them in state, but in an vm)g. unpro 


Doctor Antonio. 


tending wav. as one may suppose other magnates do, when they 
drop their crowns and make believe to be only counts or 
countesses. Probably, Sir John felt as he was accustomed tc 
do, when presiding at the annual dinner he gave his tenants at 
Davenne. 

In Italy, as elsewhere, toasts are a prevalent fashion, but 
speeches of dubious eloquence are superseded by the rattle of 
glass touching glass in general sympathetic clatter. The. count 
proposed a bumper to the health of their distinguished host, and 
of his accomplished daughter, and the sentiment was drunk with 
universal enthusiasm. The mayor, two coun oilmen, and the 
justice of peace followed in the same track, showing much 
ingenuity in devising variations on the same theme. Sir John 
felt himself called upon to return thanks for himself and his 
daughter, which he did in a rather lengthy speech ; and Doctor 
Antonio, after transmitting to the guests in Italian the baronePs 
effusion, conveyed to him in a few neatly-turned English phrases, 
the gratified feelings of the company. 

During the evening, Lucy made her first appearance, wheeled 
in upon her rolling chair, and we need scarcely say that her 
beauty and grace created quite a sensation among the prover- 
bially enthusiastic Italians. Antonio sang some of his most 
spirited Sicilian songs, which were heartily applauded and 
encored ; and the drawing-master, who is something of an 
improvisatore, extemporized a sonnet to Miss Davenne, in 
which he compared her to a lily, and to a palm-tree, and to 
Minerva into the bargain, all which was received with loud 
bravos by those present, with the exception of the count, who 
(it being a notorious matter that the count and the drawing- 
master were at daggers drawn) was observed to make, while the 
sonnet was being delivered, sundry wry faces, intended to convey 
and express a considerable amount of doubt as to the bona jidt 
im'prom'ptu nature of the performance. Except this trifling incl 


The 15th of May, 1840. 


188 


ifent, which escaped the notice of both the baronet aid his 
daughter, and the marked coolness with which tea was received 
by the majority — a damp soon counteracted by Sir John order 
ing in a fresh supply of black bottles for the dissenters — every 
thing went on capitally, and entirely to the satisfaction of all 
concerned ; so much so, that Antonio, after a rather long collo- 
quy with the baronet in the balcony, came forth and announced 
seaThot tenante in the Amphitryon’s name, that should a little con- 
versation and a little music prove a sufficient inducement to give 
him their company, Sir John Davenne would be delighted to 
receive all present on every successive Wednesday and Saturday, 
at eight o’clock in the evening. 

There is a circumstance connected with this entertainment too 
important to be overlooked, and it is, that Doctor Antonio 
iichieved the conquest of Sir John on the occasion. Was it his 
ngorous professional costume and white cravat — was it his gen- 
»lemanly manner, or his speechifying powers, or all the three 
ktauses combined, that won Sir John’s British heart? We can- 
not say, but to this we must testify, that Sir John’s heart was 
won. Sir John treated Doctor Antonio all dinner time, and 
throughout the evening, with marked distinction, addressing him 
publicly as “ My honorable friend,” and privately and confiden- 
tially as “ My dear friend he even went so far as to declare 
emphatically to Lucy, after every one was gone, that “could 
that man be brought to shave, he would not be out of place at 
the table of a king.” From that day forward, the doctor was 
promoted to the honor of shaking hands with the baronet ; and 
let Antonio say what he would, John was despatched daily to 
the doctor’s dwelling, with Sir John Davenne’s compliments, and 
the newspaper of the previous day. 

Already have two brilliant soirees muskaXts^'^ as Sir John 
calls them, been held in the course of the last week at the 
Osteria, and the expected third is creating great anxiety in tht 


184 


Doctor Antonio. 


neighborhood ; the English MHordo's concerts are the talk of 
the country for ten miles round. Visitors from so far off ai 
Ventimiglia and San Kemo have left cards for Sir John and Miss 
Davenne, and many are making interest with the count and the 
doctor for invitations. The management of the music devolves 
entirely, on Doctor Antonio, under whose superintendence quar- 
tettes are executed. The performers, a bassoon, a violin, a 
violoncello, are all dilettanti from Bordighera j Antonio makes 
the fourth, playing by turns the guitar or the flute. Hutchins’s 
little room is transformed, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, into a 
refreshment room, the buffet in which is most regularly attended. 
To see Sir John on these evenings is to see a man thoroughly on 
good terms with himself — step, voice, and look express, “ I am 
monarch of all I survey and let wise folks theorize as they 
may, the upshot of the matter will always be, that mankind, 
including womankind, do like occasionally to be “ the glass of 
fashion, and the mould of form, the observed of all observers” — 
were it only at Bordighera. On all other evenings of the week, 
Sir John’s society is limited to the count and Doctor Antonio, 
to which privileged circle, Sir John, while sipping his tea, 
imparts little glimpses of London life — fashionable life of course 
— interspersed with hints that, like flashes of lightning, reveal 
something of the splendors of Davenne Hall, and of the greatness 
and mightiness of the Davennes, or “ the famOy,” as Sir John 
fondly calls his race. As ten strikes, he regularly sits down to 
chess with Doctor Antonio (this is the signal for Lucy to with- 
draw, and for the count to begin to dose), and invariably wins 
two games out of three, Antonio having discovered that Sir 
John cannot lose games without losing hifl temper also, and 
when cross, Lucy’s father is unbearable. 

Almost the whole of Lucy’s time during this fortnight haa 
been spent in the balcony. Ever since she has been able to pass 
the day in the open air, her health has strengthened considerably 


The 15th of May, 1840. 


186 


Slie exceedingly enjoys the “ soirhs musicales,'*’ greatly for the 
sake of the music — Lucy is really fond of music — but a little, 
loo, for the sake of the ejffect she herself produces. Curious 
enough I Lucy never seems to have surmised before that she was 
lovely, or if she had surmised it, only begins now to care about 
being so. Every one, she observes, is so well bred, so respectful 
to her, so full of attention. Lucy is, in truth, a little queen with 
a little court. She is making visible progress in drawing, par- 
ticularly in figures, to which she has taken a great fancy, so 
much so, that she has sketched Speranza twenty times over — 
Speranza, who sits to her with angelic patience for hours, no 
longer wan and dejected, but brightened by some mysterious pre- 
sentiment that a happy change is at hand for her ; besides there 
are the practisings on the guitar, and Doctor Antonio^s visits, 
so Lucy’s hours are pretty full. The drawing-master, too, 
amuses her to a degree, — such a fiery, violent little man, so 
good-natured withal and so clever ! Dante, Lucy tells the doc- 
tor, is rather too deep a well for her, but she perseveres in 
drawing up all she can. She openly confesses that she does 
more fully enjoy the prospect from the balcony now than on the 
first days ; to use her own expression, it seems as if all its sepa- 
rate beauties had melted into one great beauty. 

Doctor Antonio does not look elated by high favor with Sir 
John : he takes it meekly, maybe like a man who felt himself 
entitled to it all along ; nor have his successes as conductor of 
the orchestra, and guitar and flute player, turned his head 
Doctor Antonio continues exactly the same serene, unassuming, 
serviceable, good-humored creature he was fifteen days ago. If 
there be any change in him, it is a change for the better in his 
personal appearance, so slight, however, that the eye must be 
scrutinizing indeed — the eye of a woman probably — to find it out. 
His coat is perhaps a thought more carefully brushed, his hair 
and beard more carefully trimmed, his cravat less loosely tvisted 


Doctor Antonio. 


m 

round his throat than it used to be. I^'or does the management 
of the musical department at all interfere with his attendance on 
Miss Davenne, which is as assiduous as ever ; and though he has 
evidently plenty to do elsewhere, he finds time to make himself 
useful and agreeable at the Osteria. For instance, on hearing 
Lucy observe one day, that the mosquitoes were beginning to 
become troublesome at night, he fell to work immediately, fas- 
tened up poles to her bed, and to Sir John’s, and upon these 
poles hung mosquito nets ; then, on a complaint from the same 
quarter, of flies being intolerable, he caused large bundles of a 
common viscous plant (Erigeron Viscosum, Lin.), dipped in milk, 
to be hung up in all the rooms and the balcony, which attracted 
all the flies, and freed her at once from one of the plagues of 
)’taly. Lucy had one thought very carefully hidden in the 
^amost folds of her heart, and that thought was, that surely 
\ here never was any one in the world like Doctor Antonio. 

Such was, on the whole, the rather satisfactory state of things 
»ind parties in the Osteria del MattoTie on this blessed day, the 
1 5th of May, 1840. 

It was ten in the morning, as lovely a morning as poets and 
birds can sing. Miss Davenne, in a light-blue gown, sat in the 
balcony busy with her pencils. Was the choice of a blue dress 
quite accidental on her part, or was it in any way connected 
with Antonio having mentioned the evening before, that, of all 
the colors, he liked blue the best ? Who can tell ? Antonio 
was also seated on the balcony, a little behind Lucy, and pulling 
his beard violently, a sign of troubled weather. Hutchins within 
was arranging in a vase a large bunch of roses just brought by 
the doctor. He rarely came empty handed ; and yet his horror 
of anything like thanks remaining unabated, Lucy had learnt to 
acknowledge his little presents only with a smile. Contrary to 
custom, the two had little to say to one another, and conversa- 
tion flagged. Maybe that Lucy was engrossed with her drawing. 


The 15th of May, 184a 


187 


floiajbe that she was otherwise absorbed. Antonio was most 
palpably so, and his wonted equanimity had deserted him this 
morning. It is the first time since we made his acquaintance, 
that he betrays strong symptoms of a malady which might have 
been supposed utterly unknown to him — irresolution. A word 
or a phrase trembled on his lips which he was afraid to utter 
He occasionally bent forwards as if about to rise, then fell back 
on his seat again. At last he made an heroic effort, bounded up 
from his chair, and said resolutely — 

“ Suppose, Miss Davenne, you were to try and walk V’ 

A welcome summoas to Lucy, whose pale cheek, paler even 
than usual on this morning, is suddenly suffused with crimson. 
As Miss Lucy has declared some time ago that she will rather 
die in her chair than use crutches, Hutchins is called, and 
desired to support her young lady on one side, while Doctor 
Antonio does as much on the other. Lucy rises, leans on the 
two proffered arms, and moves. Antonio’s heart beats loud and 
strong as the piston of a steam engine. 

“ Do you feel pain anywhere ?” asks the doctor, in a whis- 
per. 

“ Not any,” declares Lucy, but her ankle is a little stiff, 

“ And,” pursues Antonio, in a queer, thick voice, “ do you think 
you could walk alone ?” 

“ I think I could,” says Lucy, turning her smiling face up 
to his. 

“ Well, try.” 

The doctor and Hutchins gently let go their hold of Lucy ; 
Antonio stands in front of her with outstretched arms, ready to 
catch her, much in the attitude of a mother who watches the first 
steps of a dear babe. Lucy walks on unsupported, — one, two, 
three, four steps — only four ; but more than enough for Antonio’i 
quick, experienced eye to feel sure that there is no cause for any 
apprehension of impaired gait. 


188 


Doctor Antonio. 


“ Vittoria shouts Antonio, clapping his hands so loudly that 
Lucy and Hutchins are both startled by the report. “ Vittoria 
he shouts again, then suddenly checks himself, lest his joy should 
betray the extent of his fears, and occasion Lucy a retrospective 
hock. But tears are in his eyes as he and Hutchins once more 
ake hold of their precious charge ; “ for,” continues the doctor, 
pretending to composure, yet still all in a flurry, “ she must not 
over-fatigue herself ; she must lean well on his arm, so — and now 
lie quietly on the sofa — there, all’s right again.” To see his 
countenance now all in a glow with noble and sweet emotion, to 
hear his voice, to listen to his laugh, must have made the con- 
quest of the most morose of human kind. Lucy does listen, but 
silently ; she never for a moment removes her eyes from him : 
they follow him as he strides into the balcony, as he comes back 
with her little table, as he first stoops to slip a bit of paper under 
one of its legs, and then arranges her pencils and colors just 
where they ought to be. Lucy does not speak, does not even 
say “ thank you ;” for Lucy feels that she could not say it with- 
out doing something else she is striving against. She does not 
even dare to extend her hand to him, as her heart, full to the 
brim, prompts her to do, lest she should give way ; but those 
clear soft eyes that rest on him speak volumes. 

After half an hour’s rest, Lucy had another walk from the sofa 
back to the balcony, and was to have a third within another half 
hour from the balcony to the sofa, and no more till Antonio 
called again — an injunction that will not be infringed, judging 
from the manner with which it was received. While the third, 
and for the time being, last trip was in progress. Sir John came 
in ; and we leave the reader to imagine if the good humor that 
shone in his eyes was likely to be spoiled by the sight of Lucy on 
her feet again, and actually walking. He hastened to withdraw 
her arm from Hutchins, and put it under his own, delighted to 
take just five steps with his darling, and replace her on the sofa 


189 


The 15th of May, 1840 

Ajxd three happier faces than these three, we lay a wager on it, 
the lobby of the Osteria had never beheld. 

When the present excitement produced by this incident had 
subsided, Sir John began recounting with great glee his morn 
ing’s excursion. Sir John had ridden over early to San Remo 
to inspect a garden recommended to his notice by Doctor 
Antonio, and in that garden had found a treasure — a real 
treasure, as he emphatically declared, “ orange trees of the Ber- 
gamot species, flowers of the size of those (pointing to the roses 
on the table), and a fragrance, a fragrance I” Sir John was as 
happy at this discovery as if the Bergamot species were of his 
own making. The owner of the garden had himself shown Sir 
John over the grounds, and placed all the plants at the baronet’s 
disposal. “A most gentlemanlike person,” Sir John asserted, 
(what a pity. Sir John, you do not keep a note-book now!) 
** a most gentlem^like person, to whom, by-the-by, I have given 
an invitation for to-morrow’s soiree musicak.’’ Having thus far 
vented his enthusiasm, and fondly kissed Lucy, and patted her 
cheek, and observed to the doctor how well she looked — an 
assertion the doctor allowed to pass uncontradicted — Sir John 
sat down to his letters and papers. Antonio said good-bye, and 
was already at the glass door, when he met with a sudden 
obstruction in the shape of Speranza, closely followed by her 
mother, who both dashed past him, rushing into the room like 
thunderbolts. 

Both the women are in tears, and half choked with sobs, yet 
theirs are not the looks or gestures of people under the pressure 
of painful feelings. Speranza, on her knees by the side of the 
§ofa, clings passionately to Lucy, covering her hands and feet 
with kisses and tears. Rosa, less violently agitated, has stopped 
short in the middle of the room, where, alternately wiping her 
eyes with the corner of her apron, and clasping and unclasping 
her hands, she ejaculates all the time, *‘Ohcaro oh Madorma 


190 


Doctor Antonio. 


Santissima. — Oh, that I should have lived to see this day, cMm^^ 
ohime T' Presently it is the doctors turn to have his hands 
kissed and bathed, which is no sooner done than Sir John has to 
g: through the same ordeal. “The girl is mad,” cries the 
astounded baronet, getting very red in the face, and violently 
repossessing himself of his own hand. “ Yes,” says A.ntonio, 
“ mad with joy. Battista is come, I suppose, is he not, you silly 
girl ?” The silly girl’s smiling assent sparkles through a fresh 
shower ; she takes Antonio’s hands, and gently draws him 
towards the balcony, where Speranza and he, and Kosa after 
them, vanish from sight. 

“ What sadly demonstrative creatures these Italians are I” 
observed Sir John, in a dissatisfied, grumbling tone, by way of 
entering a protest against his momentary emotion. 

“ It is their nature to feel strongly, and to express strongly 
what they feel,” answered Lucy. 

“ There’s no denying the last part of your statement, my 
dear,” said her father : “ the more’s the pity.” 

“ Why so, papa ?” asked Lucy. 

“Because,” replied Sir John, drily, “ any such exhibition of 
sensibility is highly derogatory to human dignity, and carries 
with it a presumption of shallowness. Deep feelings, like deep 
rivers, Lucy, so I have heard, are rarely noisy.” 

“ But in this case, papa, nobody can doubt the reality of poor 
Speranza’s feelings, and you must have been struck by that your- 
self, for I saw the tears in your eyes.” 

“ Tears in my eyes I” growled Sir John, in a scornful tone ; 
“ nonsense 1” and, taking up the Timts newspaper, he raised it 
MS a barrier between himself and Lucy’s investigating glance. 

Antonio, after a little while, came back and said, that, as in 
duty bound, Battista craved the honor of being admitted to the 
presence of his kind benefactor and benefactress. “ Oh yes, by 
all means 1” cried Lucy, eagerly, “ let him come in at once 


The i5ih of May, 1840. 


191 


Young ladies of twenty, whatever their station, are apt to feel 
iome curiosity about the hero of a love story, let him wear a 
iucal mantle, or only a seaman^s blue jacket. “ Yes, let us get 
it over at once ; but on condition,” interposed Sir John, “ that 
we have no fresh supply of tears and hand-kissing.” 

** I think there is no fear of that,” said Antonio ; “ the 
women are now more composed, and, as far as I can judge, Bat- 
tista is not much addicted to the melting mood.” 

So much the better for him and for us,” grumbled Sir John: 
“ I have had enough of that sort of thing to-day to serve me 
for the rest of my life.” 

And now the hero of the day, a comely, middle-sized, strong- 
built, chocolate-complexioned young man of two-and-twenty, led 
by Speranza, and pushed on by Rosa in the rear, makes his 
anything but triumphal entry, and with slow, reluctant steps 
approaches the sofa where Lucy rests. The young lady, feeling 
for his confusion, kindly, and in a low voice, addresses some 
words of welcome to him. Battista looks up, utters a half cry, 
and stands for a second amazed ; and, with averted eyes, would 
then have taken to his heels, but for Rosa and Speranza, who 
catch and bring him back. He turns his eyes to the right and 
to the left, plunges them into the depths of the red woollen 
pouch he is twisting in his trembling hands, looks anywhere but 
at Lucy — verily, Battista would rather face a hurricane on a 
furious ocean than those blue eyes. “ Are you crazy ?” says 
Antonio, perplexed : “ why, man, have you nothing to say to 
this lady, who has been a second Providence to yon ?” Battista 
makes ineffectual attempts to speak ; at last the inarticulate 
sionnds become a muttered whisper of — “ It is the Madonna 
and down he drops on his knees, and crosses himself most vigoi 
onsly. Sir John may say what he chooses, but we question 
whether homage in better taste was ever paid to earthly purity 
and loveliness. Antonio saw the expediency of cutting short a 


192 


Doctor Antonio. 


icene which, from the very intensity of the poor lad’s feeling*^ 
was becoming embarrassing to all parties; so stepping up to him, 
he raised him up, saying, “ That will do, my lad, the lady under- 
stands all you wish to express — come away now, we will put oflf 
your thanks to another time and patting him good-humoredly 
on the shoulder, the doctor towed the abashed boy out of the 
room, the two bewildered women following in the rear. 

We beg the reader to believe that this is no, picture drawn 
from fancy but a real sketch from nature. Had not such a scene 
as we have described, with all the particulars related, come to 
pass under our own eyes, we should never have ventured to put 
it on paper. We ourselves can understand very well how a 
simple, ignorant, but imaginative Italian youth, whose notion of 
all that is beautiful and graceful is from earliest infancy embo- 
died in the image of the Madonna, that is, in a lovely figure with 
flowing fair curls, clothed in blue — we can understand, we repeat, 
how such a youth, put suddenly face to face with such a swivt 
specimen of womankind as this young English girl, should 
identify her with his long-worshipped type of loveliness and 
gentleness. 

Battista’s infatuation held good for some time, in spite of 
Antonio’s lectures and Speranza’s scoldings, who was quite 
ashamed, she declared, of seeing him make such a goose of him- 
self. Battista had but one argument, but with that he parried 
and overruled all objections ; he had seen her before, he was sure 
of that, and she had spoken to him, and told him that she was 
the Madonna. It was, according to Battista, one night, a 
tremendous night at sea, when, tired with long working at the 
pumps, he had thrown himself on a locker, and fallen asleep. 
And the Madonna appeared to him in his ^eep, and said, with 
flashing eyes, “ Is this thy devotion to me, that thou goest to 
thy rest without saying a ‘ salve regina ’ in my honor ?” With 
that Battista awoke, got up, said his prayers, reciting, as usual. 


The 15th of May, 184a 


m 


a salve regina,” and then once more fell asleep When, lo I 
the Madonna came to him again, this time with most benignant 
e/es, and said, in sweet tones, “ Battista, thou art a good boy : 
as long as thou puttest thy trust in me, no evil shall befall thee ; 
be of good cheer, thou shalt see Bordighera again.” Now, 
whether they believed it or not, Battista did not care — Battista 
was growing dogged with these continual reasonings — but the 
voice he had heard, the eyes, the hair, the figure he had seen in 
the up-stairs room of the Osteria on that blessed morning of the 
16th of May, were the voice, hair, eyes, and figure of Battista^s 
nocturnal visitor at sea. Battista could swear to it all, and to 
the blue gown into the bargain. 

“We must help them to marry,” said Lucy, in the afternoon, 
when alone with the doctor. 

“Must we?” answered Antonio, with a merry laugh; “1 
thought all that would come of itself soon enough, even without 
our help.” 

“ I have a great mind to call you a slow doctor, as papa once 
did,” said Lucy, with a pout of impatience ; “ you know very 
well what I mean. Did you not tell me yourself that Rosass 
affairs were in a bad state ? and is it not a fact that Battista 
has lost all he had in the world ? Now, is it not very plain that 
they do want our assistance to be able to marry ?” 

“ Do not say our assistance,” said Antonio, “ for as to mev 
have nothing to give but good wishes.” 

“Not at all,” said Lucy, quickly; “you must give a great 
deal more — time, and trouble, and all sorts of things ; you must 
find out about their debts and difficulties, and calculate what 
sum will be necessary to set them afloat.” 

“ A large sum,” replied Antonio, gravely, shaking his head at 
the eager speaker, “ a large sum.” 

“ Never mind,” said Miss Lucy, “ papa will give it, whatever 
it ia» to please me — he must ; I shall tell him that we might m 

9 


Doctor Antonio. 


well haye left Battista on board his ship, if we do nothing mon 
for him, and for Speranza.” 

Antonio only smiled, but his heart was pouring blessings on 
her, though the blessings never reached Lucy^s ear. 

A day begun under such happy auspices — a day so rich in 
deep and gentle emotions to most of our personages, came to a 
close, we are glad to say, in a manner worthy of itself. Towards 
midnight, all the echoes of the garden were awakened by the 
sounds of sweet music. The dUettarUi of Bordighera in full force, 
we need not say by whom inspired, assembled below the balcony 
to give a grand serenade to Miss Davenne. Sir John, who had 
not yet gone to bed, went down to the garden to acknowledge 
the compliment, and was received by loud vivas !” Trays with 
wine and glasses were soon circulating among the company, by 
the united exertions of Rosa, Speranza, and the no little aston- 
ished John, whose raised eyebrows, in spite of his rigid silence, 
had more than once betrayed of late the series of surprises 
through which his master was making him pass. When we 
speak of the company, we mean not only the musicians, but also 
a great number of amateurs who had followed in their wake, and 
filled the garden. 

Lucy, from behind her blind, enjoyed the serenade exceed- 
ingly. The music was unquestionably good ; but that which 
gave her far more pleasure than the well-played overtures to 
“ La Gazza Ladra,” and “ Semiramide,'’ was a villanella for 
three voices, one of them a rich, sweet bass, dear to her ears and 
heart. These villanellas, somewhat of the fashion of the serenade 
in Don Pasquale, are the popular songs of the Riviera. The 
melody, of the simplest kind, is taken up in succession by one or 
other of the voices, with no other accompaniment than a few 
syncopated notes from the other two. Altogether, an effective 
sort of perfoimance when the voices are true, which is commonly 
the case in Italy — and one full of melancholy. So much so, at 


The 15th of May, 1840. 


195 


least, in the present instance, that Lucy forthwith began to do 
freely what she had so determinedly resisted doing in the 
morning, and made her way back to her bed crying heartily. 
Her tears, however, did not interfere with her sleep, which 
was sound and refreshing. 


196 


Doctor Antonio 


Chapter XII. 

In the Garden. 

iiE what a beautiful carpet Nature has spread out foi 
fou said Antonio, a few days after, as he handed Misg 
Davenne into the garden. The night had been windy, and there 
was on the ground a thick silvery layer of orange and lemon 
blossoms, out of which came forth in strong relief a profusion of 
violently red wild poppies. “Will you have such in store for 
me when I come to Davenne V’ 

“ Not so rich and gaudy as this,” answered Lucy ; “ still,” 
continued she, with some pride, “ you will find at Davenne, at all 
seasons, what my country alone can produce — real English turf, 
as green as only itself ever is, and as soft as velvet.” 

“ I shall admire it very much,” said Antonio ; “ indeed, I feel 
inclined beforehand to admire everything that is English.” 

“ Do you ?” was the reply, in a little joyous, triumphant tone. 
“ Oh, then,, come to England soon, and I shall be your cicerone 
there I” 

“ In that case I must not go for a long time,” said the Italian, 
iokingly ; “or have you forgotten that you are to stay here, and 
build a cottage out of spite to somebody or other ?” 

“ I wish it were true ; I could stay here willingly aU my life,* 
said liucy, simply. 


In die Garden. 


197 


** Could you, indeed exclaimed Antonio, with a thrill in his 
voice, while a column of blood rushed to his face. 

She looked up to him. 

“ But you can't, he added, gravely, nay, with a touch of 
despondency, *‘you know you cannot. What would the world 
say,” he went on, with an awkward attempt to laugh, “ if the 
daughter of Sir John D avenue were to desert her place in 
society, and bury herself in an obscure Italian village 1” 

He paused slightly, it might be for an answer, then continued— 
“Rank and riches are chains of gold, but still chains. It was 
Seneca, was it not, who said that a great fortune was a great 
servitude.” 

“ I fear so,” answered Lucy, with a sigh that would not be 
kept down. 

The couple moved on in silence. It was a treat to see them 
walk leisurely along — he measuring his step to hers, and sup- 
porting her with such gentle care — she leaning on his arm so 
confidingly, so complacently. Both young, elegant, and graceful 
— both bearing about them that cast of distinction which charac- 
terises refined natures ; yet with so much in common, how dif- 
ferent in type I Lucy all golden hues and softness, Antonio all 
dark shades and energy ; — her little cherub’s head bending 
gracefully forwards as if in search of a stay, his so resolutely set 
upon his shoulders ; — her step so light and childlike, his so 
manly and steady, as if at ev-ery stride he took possession, in 
right of some unknown power, of every bit of ground he walked 
upon. Such a contrast, and yet such a harmony — strength and 
weakness blended together 1 Every characteristic feature of the 
one setting forth to advantage and giving zest to that of the 
other — the fiery black diamond casting lustre over the oriental 
pearl, the oriental pearl in return lending softness to the black 
diamond I 

While Doctor Antonio and Miss Davenne were, notwithstand 


198 


Doctor Antonio. 


mg sighs and little misgivings, enjoying this first moming^i 
saunter together, they were inflicting real suflering on an unsus* 
pected witness of their tete-a-tUe. Battista, of course, was every 
day, and all day, at the Osteria, most of the time in the garden, 
whore he used to smoke his pipe, and have a peep at Miss 
Davenne from some convenient place, probably with the design 
of getting clear of his perplexities about her. Sir John having 
complained of the unwonted odor of tobacco infesting his apart- 
ments, Battista had renounced his pipe, but not his observations, 
which he carried on most perseveringly, comforting himself with 
chewing the fragrant weed the while. Now, Lucy never having 
ventured out of the house before, her presence close to his daily 
post came quite unawares upon Speranza’s lover, who hastened 
to take himself and his confusion as far from the young lady and 
her companion as the limits of the little enclosure would allow, 
in the hope of being able i^o make his exit when they should 
have turned towards the liopse again. But to his great mortifi- 
cation, instead of turning, they continued their walk directly 
towards him, and thus cut off his meditated retreat through the 
garden gate, leaving him no alternative but to confront them, 
which he would not do, or of ignobly hiding behind the trunks 
of some trees, which ho did, and where the doctor’s keen glance 
was not long in detecting him. 

“ Look at your devotee,” said Antonio; “ see how he is skulk- 
ing behind those trees to avoid your presence. Shall we march 
straight upon him, and force him to extremities ?” 

“ No,” replied Lucy, thoughtfully. 

“ Are you tired ? should you like to sit down ?” asked 
Antonio 

“ No. not yet, thank you, I would rather walk a little longer,” 
and on they walked, Lucy still musing. 

“ Suppose,” said she, all at once, you were to go to London 
and settle there ?” 


In the Garden. 


199 


Antonio looked at her with unfeigned surprise, then an- 
swered, “ Well, suppose I did, what great good would be ob- 
tained then?” 

Why,” said Lucy, “ with your talents and medical skill, 
and papa’s interest, you would soon get a large practice, and 
make a fortune.” 

‘'Did we not agree,” retorted Antonio, with a smile, “that 
fortune might be a drawback ? ” 

“True,” replied Lucy, rather abashed, “yet it seems so 
natural — does it not ? — to try and better one’s condition.” 

“Well, but will a fortune better my condition?” said Antonio, 
doubtingly — “ that is the question. Let us take it for granted 
that the practical difficulties of the plan you recommend are 
overcome ; let us assume that my fortune is made. I am rich, 
then, but to what purpose ? and mark first at what cost : at the 
cost of a complete exile from my country, at that of all my incli- 
nations and habits, of much that cheers my heart and eyes, of the 
familiar tongue, of my dear warm sun and blue sea, of those 
orange groves, wafting to me perfumed recollection of my sweet 
Sicily. These things, light losses to many perhaps, would be 
heavy ones to me, yet to be borne, were the aim to be reached 
worth the sacrifice. But such an aim is exactly wanting for me. 
My mother, thank God, is tolerably provided for ; my other 
relations well offi As for myself, I really should be at a loss 
to say Tvhat increase of comforts Fortune could bring to me.” 
Antonio paused, but as Lucy was silent, he continued — 

“A fine mansion ? — but I feel lodged like a prince in my little 
dwelling at Bordighera, larger, after all, than I require, and 
which, for situation and the prospect it commands, beats many a 
lordly chateau. To be sure I have no velvet carpets nor double 
green-baize doors. What use is there for such things in this 
genial climate, where the winters are so short and mild, that I 
scarcely think of having a fire lighted ? A rich table ? — but 


200 


Doctor Antonio. 


mine is the table of an epicure : no need here to be a man of 
capital, no need of forcing-houses to have the luxuries of the 
table at command. Equipages and horses? — ^have I not my 
takssino and shaggy little horse. Then I dislike riding and 
driving, and never feel so happy as when I can have a good 
walk, fanned by this wholesome, sweet-scented sea-breeze. So 
that, all things considered,” wound up the Italian, as if his 
discourse must have brought conviction home to his patient 
listener, “ you see that a fortune could do nothing for my real 
comforts.” 

As he stopped, he was struck by the pallor that had succeeded 
to the vivid blush on Lucy’s cheek. “You are over-tired,” he 
said, “ let us go in at once.” 

Lucy’s womanly instinct had been sharply roused by what 
Antonio had said, and left unsaid. The apparent indifference 
with which he had received and treated her proposal, without so 
much as alluding at least to one argument, whose mention seemed 
so naturally called for by the wish she had just been expressing, 
of remaining where she was for life ; the sort of affectation with 
which he had dwelt upon his reasons for being content with his 
'ot, — all this had affected her painfully. Lucy had no conception 
of that firm self-control which enables a man to rein in at once an 
involuntary emotion, and hold straight on along the highroad of 
common sense. Antonio, whatever his object, had purposely 
viewed the idea she had thrown out in an exclusively matter-of- 
fact way women can hardly bear, and are always hurt by, the 
more or the less depending on the relation in which they stand to 
the speaker. The one instinct awoke another, which bid her 
conceal her wounded feelings, and she saw no better means of 
doing so than going on resolutely with the subject. 

“ Be it all as you say,” resumed Lucy, “ yet you must, at all 
events, admit that in London your abilities and knowledge would 
be better appreciated than here ; and there must be satisfaction 


In the Garden. 


201 


it. being properly valued. I suppose you are not insensible to 
fame ?” 

“ Fame I” echoed Antonio, smiling ; have you forgotten 
Dante’s definition of fame ? ‘ Non e il rumor mondam altro cht un 
Jiato — Di vento cK or va quindi ed or vo quinci.^ 

“ It sounds so sad and unnatural,” said Lucy, “ to hear one so 
young talk as if he had not one spark of ambition left.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” retorted the doctor, quickly ; “ I have 
an ambition, and a great one, that of serving my country, and 
doing my best in her cause.” 

“ What chance is there of your doing that cause more good 
here, situated as you are, than in London ?” 

“ Very little, certainly ; however, should any movement take 
place in Sicily, or in any other part of the peninsula, as sooner 
or later must be the case, think how much more speedily and 
easily I could join it from here than from London.” 

“You are fondly devoted to you country,” said Lucy. 

“ Who is not ?” replied Antonio. 

“ Are you sure that the cause you are engaged in is the right- 
ful cause ?” 

“ As sure as I am that there is a God in heaven,” answered 
Antonio, solemnly ; “ what makes you ask ?” 

“You must make allowance for — for ray prejudices, I sup- 
pose,” said Lucy. “ I have heard so many strictures passed on 
Italian character, not only by papa, but by many other of my 
'ountrymen. I have heard so much said against the liberal 

party in Italy, particularly while we were at Rome, that ” 

Lucy hesitated. 

“ That you are rather inclined to think they must be in the 
▼Tong,” said Antonio, finishing the sentence for her. ‘ 1 do qoJ 


* “ the noiae 

Ot worldly fame is but a blast of wind. 
That bio Ts from divers poiuts.” — C ast. 

9 * 


902 


Doctor Antonio. 


ironder at it. nor do I wonder at the opinions yon Lave heard 
express-ed by Englishmen on thest subjects. The sympathies of 
the strong and the powerful are seldom with the weak and the 
oppressed. Do you recollect how ingenious Job’s friends were 
in proving that it was his fault if he lay covered with sores on 
the dunghill ? Such is the common tendency of human selfish- 
ness in presence of suffering, in order to dispense with compas- 
sion and assistance. That our national character may be open 
to objections (pray show me the people whoee character is not), 
that busybodies, nay, evil, self-seeking spirits may be found in 
the ranks of the national party — where are they not ? — I can 
readily admit. Far be it from me to hold my country as a pat- 
tern of perfection. Italians are men like other men, with their 
share of man’s greatness and man’s weakness. Look through the 
world, study the history of mankind, and what is the lesson they 
teach ? — one of reciprocal forbearance and indulgence. But,” 
proceeded he, with growing animation, “believe me, Miss 
Davenne, when I say, what I am ready to proclaim aloud, and 
seal with my blood, if necessary, that Italy is a noble, much 
trampled on, much wronged country, and her cause one as holy 
as truth and justice can make a cause. Excuse my warmth,” 
continued Antonio, relapsing into his usual sedate manner; “but 
if you knew the hundredth part of the self-devotion and sacrifice 
spent in behalf of this ill-fated land, with no better meed from 
the world than sneering indifference, you would, I am sure, sym- 
pathize with my feelings.” 

A tear trembled in Lucy’s eyes as she replied, “ But I do sym- 
pathize with your feelings — I wish so very much you would tell 
me all about your country.” 

“ I will some day, at least about Sicily,” said Antonio ; “ but 
DOW you really need some rest, and see, there comes your draw- 
ing-master.” 

Lucy’s drawing-master, side by side with Sir John, was indeed 


In the Garden. 


203 


hurrying across the garden, talking all the while in a thunder- 
ing voice, and accompanying what he said with frantic gestic- 
ulations. Had it not been for Sir John, the big-headed little 
man w^ould, notwithstanding Doctor Antonio’s loud calls, have 
passed on without noticing Miss Davenne or her cavalier. 

‘‘ What on earth has happened ? ” cried the doctor. 

“Apiece of such rare impudence as surpasses imagination ! 
ejaculated the drawing-master, stopping short, and throwing 
his hat on the ground in a rage. “ Cose incredihili, orrende, 
mostrouse f Can you believe that now, when the organ-builder 
is come from Nice to set up the organ, the count after all his 
promises refuses to receive him, and flatly denies that he ever 
engaged to give him a room in his palazzo ? Denies it, sir, with 
the minute of our proceeding of the 19th November, 1839, every 
w^ord of which I myself wrote dowm at the time and place — 
with that minute, I say, staring him in the face, the mean, 
stingy fellow ! I will make ten thousand copies of that min- 
ute, and of that of this morning’s meeting, and to every copy 
I will afiix in red ink this verse of Berchet ; ” and he recited 
with immense emphasis the following four lines : 


“ Vile, un manto d’infamia hai tessuto ; 

L’hai voluto, sul dosso ti pta ; 

per pianger, o vil, che farai, 

Nessun mai dal tuo dosso il torra.” 

LITEEAL TKANSLATION. 

Coward I thou hast woven a mantle of infamy ; 

Thou hast chosen it, it liJings on thy back ; 

Nor for tears that thou mayest shed, 

Will any one ever take it off thy back. 

“ Yes ; I wiU spread and distribute these copies all over the 
Biviera, and have this noble count hissed in our streets and 
highways, I will brand him, and hand him down to posterity 
as the barefaced impostor he is.” 


?04 


Doctor Antonio. 


Having made this passionate declaration, the incensed little 
body stopped to take breath, picked up his hat, and with 
4iuite a dramatic change of look and gesture, said gallantly to 
Miss Davenne — 

“ I rely on the signorina’s well-known goodness to excuse me 
from giving her a lesson to-day. I am in no mood for it ; and 
I have arrangements to make with regard to this unjpleasant 
affair which render my presence in Bordighera imperative ; ’* 
— then, turning to Antonio, he added, with a solemnity that 
more than bordered on the ludicrous — “ of one thing you may 
rest assured, my friend, the Confraternity of the Beds shall come 
out of this difficulty with honor, though it be at the cost of all 
I possess in the world ; ” so saying, he trotted out of the gar- 
den, first giving his hat such a resolute thump on his head as 
to send it down over his eyes. 

‘‘Had you not better follow him?” said kind Miss Lucy 
to Doctor Antonio. “If he were to meet the count while he 
is in such a passion, I am afraid there would be some mischief.” 

“ Do not make yourself uneasy as to that,” replied Antonio, 
smiling ; “ with aU his fury and blaze, our little friend is a 
most peaceful creature, he would not hurt a fly willingly. If 
he were to meet the count just now, he would probably show his 
displeasure by a peculiarly stately bow, or at the worst by a vol- 
ley of harmless verses, hurled in petto at his pro tempore foe.” 

“ But what is all this fury about ? ” asked Lucy. “ I could 
not find out what made him so angry.” 

“ I must begin by telling you,” said Antonio, “ that the 
count is priore (president), and your drawing-master sotto- 
priore (vice-president) of the Confraternity of the Beds. But 
you know nothing of the Beds or the Whites. Suppose, as 
you are to have no lesson, that I were to give you a lecture in 
confraternities.” 

Before Lucy could answer, Sir John said, “Ay, pray do. Doc- 


In the Garden. 


205 


tor Antonio ; and instead of going to the balcony let us have 
chairs out here, and listen to the doctor’s story under thfese 
orange trees.” 

When they were all seated, Antonio began : 

“ As I told you more than once before, the parish church, its 
embellishment, the splendor of the church services, and proces- 
sions, are the great interest, indeed the only public excitement 
accessible to the mass of the laity here. The parish church, 
with its church-wardens, choristers, and officials of all sorts, 
affords scope, hovrever, to the activity of only a limited number 
of persons. To remedy this inconvenience, there have arisen, 
under the wing of the parent establishment, brotherhoods of 
many colors, whose business it is to assemble in a place of wor- 
ship of their own for prayer in common, to bury their dead, and 
under one pretext or another, continually muster in processions. 
There are here, as in every little town of the Eiviera, confrater- 
nities of the Reds, the Whites, and the Blacks, so named from 
the color of the hooded robes worn by the brethren. Each of 
these associations, naturally not over-friendly the one to the 
other, has a numerous staff of dignitaries and functionaries — a 
prior and under-prior, a prioress and under-prioress, a chapter, 
or body of councillors, choristers, crucifix-bearers, standard- 
bearers, mace-bearers, lamp-bearers, and so on, whose annual 
election, especially that of the priore and sotto-priore, and chap- 
ter, set the brethren in a blaze. Thus you see, every one of 
these societies becomes a small focus of petty ambitions, rival- 
ries, intrigue, and gossip. What wonder if, in the state of utter 
ignorance wherein the majority are kept, and which renders 
them incapable of intellectual enjoyments and pursuits — if in 
their exclusion from all participation, even in the management 
of their parish affairs, or of anything to do with those local in- 
terests, such as are confided in England to corporations, — what 
wonder, I say, if, in the absence of legitimate sources of excite- 


206 


Doctor Antonio. 


ment, aa necessary to man as the yery air he breathes, these 
good folks should fall back on futile and childish occupations? ” 

“ Ah ! ” interrupted Sir John, knowingly, “ an absolute gov- 
ernment cannot help much of what you complain of, Doctor 
Antonio ; change one thing, and all the rest tumble about 
your ears. But, after all, you do not mean to say that the 
different parishes do not elect their own town-councillors, out 
of whose number, I suppose, the mayor is chosen ? 

“Elect their own town-councillors!” cried Antonio, “not 
even in a dream. A mad dog has not greater horror of water 
than our ruling powers of the elective principle. Municipal 
institutions are a dead letter here — a body without a soul, a 
mere mockeiy. Do you wish to know who chooses the mayor 
and town-councillors ? The late mayor (necessarily a creature 
of the government, or he wouldn’t have been a mayor), the 
cure, and the officer of the carbineers, these three make out a 
list, which is placed before the commandant for approval and 
revision. The commandant sends it duly revised and approved 
to the intendente (the chief civil magistrate of the province), 
who, in his turn, forwards it to Turin, where it receives the 
official confirmation. As to your observation,” continued An- 
tonio, turning to Sir John, “ that all I complain of is the un- 
avoidable consequence of an absolute government, I can only 
ask. If any particular form of government avowedly works 
badly, why should it find defenders and upholders among 
those who would not submit to it in their own country ? ” 

Sir J ohn pursed up his lips most ominously, but did not speak. 

“ I now come to the kernel of the matter,” said Antonio, with- 
out appearing to notice the cloud on the baronet’s brow. “ The 
Chapter of the Beds, the count presiding, as usual, some time 
ago voted a sum for the purchase of an organ for their own little 
church, or oratorio, as they call it — money is never wanting for 
such objects. At a later period, and when the organ in question 


In the Garden. 


207 


was almost finished, the chapter met again to consider the pro- 
priety of voting a further sum to defray the travelling expenses 
and the stay here of the organ-builder. It was on this occasion 
that the count declared he would take all that upon himself, 
and receive the organ-builder at his own palazzo, whereupon 
there was an unanimous vote of thanks to the count. This took 
place in that famous sitting of the 19th November, 1839, to 
which the drawing-master just now referred. It would seem 
that the count, who has the reputation of being a stingy man, 
wishes now to take back his word, and refuses to fulfil his 
promise. Inde ira.’^ 

Sir John fumed a good deal on hearing this, and protested 
that there must be some gross mistake in the statement of the 
drawing-master. The count a stingy man ! Nonsense ! He 
had put his casino at his (Sir John’s) disposal twenty times 
over. A nobleman like the count was incapable of such 
shabby tricks. He would see the count himself, and have the 
whole matter cleared up. 

Sir John was as good as his word. On the evening of 
that same day he had a long conversation with the count, 
the upshot of which was, that on the morrow the organ- 
builder was installed in the count's palaazo, to the infinite 
satisfaction of all parties. 


208 


Doctor Antonio. 


Chapter XIII. 

In the Boat. 

Onb afternoon, as Lucy, arm-in-arm with her father, was 
strolling as usual about the garden, Antonio a few paces in 
front of them, the latter took off the bar of the little gate that 
opened on the beach, and led l^ie way down a gentle slope to the 
sea-side. The path, as smooth and carefully swept as a gravelled 
garden walk (we suspect Battista of having had some hand in 
this), was bordered on either side by a quantity of yellow, white, 
and pink flowers, shooting out of the dry sand as brisk and vi- 
vacious as if planted in the richest soil. Lucy was so taken up 
observing, admiring, and picking them, and so intent on lis- 
tening to Antonio’s explanations about this particular genus 
of marine plants, that she did not notice Battista with an- 
other man, standing by a boat wdth a gaily-striped awning, itn 
bow already in the water, till she came close to them. 

“ Oh, what a pretty boat ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ The boat and the crew are here for your service, if you 
feel inclined to make use of them,” said Antonio to her. 

“Thank you, I shall enjoy a row on this beautiful, beautiful 
sea so much ! ” exclaimed Lucy in high glee. “You have no 
objection, papa ? But,” added she, with some timidity, “ will 
it be safe to go with only two men ? ” 

“ You will be as safe as in your balcony,” replied Antonio. 


In the Boat. 


209 


“Battista is a first-rate boatman as well as sailor, no one more 
expert in the management of sail or oar. The countrymen 
of Columbus are well known as capital seamen, allowed to be 
so even by the English, who are proud, and justly so, of their 
superiority on the sea. An intelligent government,” con- 
tinued Antonio, as he handed Lucy into the boat, “would 
work wonders with such elements : but ” and the comple- 

ment of the sentence was a shrug and a sigh. 

Lucy looked at the speaker, and said, “Now, we are none 
of us to think of governments or politics ; we are going to 
enjoy ourselves this afternoon.” There was so much of the 
woman’s kindness mixed with the girl’s buoyancy in this, that 
the Italian did not feel sore at this remark. Lucy only liked 
to hear Antonio talk of the troubles of his country when Sir 
John was not present. 

There was not a ripple on the sea, whose bright blue was 
only now and then checkered by broad white streaks — milky 
paths on the azure — some stretching forth in straight lines, 
others winding forward in gTaceful zig-zags. Battista and his 
comrade put forth the strength of their brawny arms, the 
former keeping his eyes carefully averted from Miss Davenne, 
who lay back on the cushioned seat, parting the water by the 
boat’s side with her delicate fingers, deep in pleasant imagin- 
ings, it would seem, from the half smile on her lips. Swiftly 
they glided past the Cape of Bordighera, and then a new 
and splendid panorama opened out before them. 

A glorious extent of hilly coast against a background of lofty 
mountains, stretched semi-circularly from east to west, broken 
all along into capes and creeks, and studded with towns and 
villages, full of original character — Ventimiglia, with its crown 
of dismantled mediaeval castles — Mentone, so gay on the sunny 
beach, well named Roccabruna, all sombre hues and frowns 
— Turbia, and its Roman monument, a record of the greatest 


210 


Doctor Antonio. 


power on earth, covering with its shadow the Lilliputian princi 
pality of Monaco below — Villafrauca and its lighthouse. Fur* 
ther on, running southward, loomed vaporous in the distance, tha 
long, low strip of French shore, with Antibes at its extremity ; 
and further std\ in the west, the fanciful blue lines of the moun- 
tains of Provence. Here and there a snowy peak shot boldly 
above the rest ; some hoary parent Alp, one might fancy 
looking down to see that all went right among the youngei 
branches. 

Lucy’s eyes and soul feasted in silence on this prospect, over 
which the warm tints of the setting sun cast a magical splendor 
of unspeakable effect. As the sense of the beauties amid which 
she lived grew every day stronger upon our sweet English girl, 
she gradually found out how empty and inadequate to express 
what she felt were those every-day set forms of admiration, of 
which she had been so profuse at first. Sir John, on the con- 
trary, though long familiar with this scene, was enthusiastic in 
his praises of it, ending with a lament that the Osteria was not 
on this side of the Cape of Bordighera. 

But the Gulf of Spedaletti, and the three well-known head* 
lands to the east, found an eager advocate in Lucy, who insisted 
on their superiority. She allowed that the view towards the 
coast of France was the more varied and extensive of the two ; 
but she declared that it wanted the harmonious unity and 
character of melancholy grandeur which marked the view from 
the Osteria. “ A painter,” said Lucy, might prefer the former: 
but a poet, I am sure, would find the latter more suggestive of 
thoughts and images going home to the heart.” 

“Heyday I” laughed Sir John, looking fondly and proudly 
ftt the speaker, “is my pet going to turn poet herself?” 

“ Who, knows ?” retorted the smiling girl, with a guilty blush. 
Indeed, she felt as if she were. 

Between two richly wooded hillocks, a little to the westward 


In the Boat. 


211 


of Bordighera, appeared the white palazzino of the count, now 
all in a purple glow. “ There’s a glorious situation for you,” 
exclaimed Sir John, pointing it out to his daughter. 

The count is a man of taste,” said Antonio, “ he chose the 
site, and gave the plan of his casino himself.” 

“ He is a cleverer fellow, then, than I thought,” observed 
the baronet ; “ it stands exactly where it ought.” 

“ Does it not? ” replied the doctor. “ Transport it in im- 
agination anywhere else, and it will lose something by the 
change.” 

“ What you say of the count’s casino, might be said, I think, 
of all the numerous towns and villages that we see from here,” 
said Lucy ; ‘‘no one could wish them moved higher or lower, 
to the right or to the left, by way of making them look pret- 
tier or more picturesque. Even the most insignificant hamlet 
seems just where it looks best on its own account, and where 
it adds most to the effect of the whole. Do you not think so, 
Doctor Antonio ? ” 

“To such an admirer,” said Antonio, smilingonher, 

“ I may venture to say, that the race which inhabits this country 
is a race of unconscious artists. They possess an uncultivated 
but decided appreciation of the beautiful, the workings of which 
are as clearly traceable in the choice of a situation, and the 
building of a town or village, as the choice and arrangement of 
a flower in the women’s hair. Perhaps nature has so ordained 
it, that man’s works should not be at odds with her own in this 
privileged land. If you observe the attitudes and gestures of 
these people, the way in w^hich they mingle the colors, and the 
gi’ace with which they wear their simple costume, you will at 
once detect an inborn nicety of taste, for which they are indebted 
to the medium in which they live. Take, for instance, the head- 
gear of the men, nothing but a red pouch lined with brown, or 
the colored kerchief which the women tie round their heads ; 


212 


Doctor Antonio. 


can anything be more simple ? Yet see in how many different 
ways, and all picturesque, they contrive to wear them. The 
peasant girl, who carries on her head or under her arm the 
bundle of grass for her cow, never forgets to hang at one of 
its ends a bunch of red poppies, or of blue corn-flowers, or 
any other flower of the season. How often I have seen orig* 
inals of Leopold Kobert’s two famous pictures here ! ” 

“ Are the women generally handsome ? ” asked Lucy. 

“Yes — -that is, they have all the characteristics of a fine 
race,” replied Antonio ; “ long, well-cut eyes, rich hair, fine 
necks, on which the head is well placed, small wrists, ankles, 
and feet. But many of these beauties are lost or spoiled by 
over-exertion, or neglect, their hair in particular. You have 
a good specimen of the women of this country in Speranza.” 

“ Ah 1 she is really very beautiful ! ” exclaimed Lucy, with 
such enthusiasm, that Sir John stared, then said, — 

“ Is she ? well, it is odd that I never found it out.” 

“ That is because you have not looked enough at her, papa,” 
retorted Lucy, laughing. “ If you had tried to draw her pict- 
ure twenty times, as I have done, you would have found out 
the exquisite purity and elegance of all the lines about her.” 

“ Well done. Miss Lucy ; where did you pick up all this fine 
artist’s talk ? ” cried the somewhat amazed father. “ I sup- 
pose, Doctor Antonio, the medium you are so fond of talking 
about is affecting my little English girl ? ” 

“ Probably,” answered the doctor, with one of his quiet smiles. 
“ However, I agree with Miss Davenne. Speranza is a beauty ; 
and I never see her washing her linen at the fountain, without 
thinking of Homer’s description of Nausicaa. If the rest of 
her person were as faultless as her head and her bust, Rosa’s 
daughter might sit for a Hebe. As it is, the going to the 
wood and carrying great weights, spoils the finest propor- 
tions.” 


In the Boat. 


213 


** I must take a good look at this beauty when we reach 
home,” said Sir John. 

The boat, now on its way back, was just opposite Bordi- 
ghera. “ What is that on the height, a little way in front of 
the town,” asked Lucy, “ that looks like a bit of a ruin ? ” 

“ It is, or rather was, an open battery. By-the-by, there is 
a story in connection with it, in which, as the English are con- 
cerned, you may take an interest.” 

“I hope it is not something against them,” said Lucy. 

“Judge for yourself,” replied the doctor. “ On a calm day 
of July, 1812, an English brig-of-war came in sight of Bordi- 
ghera, and, with or without a motive, ran so close in shore as to 
place herself under the battery of the town. Now, the officers 
in command of the batteries along the coast had precise orders 
to fire upon all English vessels chancing to come within reach 
of cannon shot. The Biviera in those times belonged, by right 
of the strongest, to France. The French lieutenant, who, at 
the head of a dozen men, happened to be in command of this 
battery on this particular day of the 21st July, must have been, 
to all appearance, a sober-minded man, without a particle of 
*furia Francese ’ in his blood, for he saw the enemy’s progress 
with perfect coolness, and without making any hostile prepa- 
ration. But a conduct so philosophical was far from suiting the 
good folks of Bordighera, who had reckoned on something bet- 
ter. It was not every dny that brought to the quiet and rather 
dull citizens of the little town, such a good chance of sport and 
excitement as an English vessel to fire upon ; and they were 
determined to make the most of it. So they came in numbers 
to the battery, and uproariously insisted that the officer should 
carry into effect the instructions he held, by at once firing upon 
the audacious brig. The lieutenant, not daring to take upon 
himself the responsibility of a refusal, yielded a grudging as- 
sent, but first, though every rope of the rigging was distinctly 


214 


Doctor Antonio. 


visible to the naked eye, he reconnoitred the enemy through 
an immense spy-glass ; and so long did the survey last, that it 
might have been suspected he was not without a secret hope 
that the vessel which had placed itself in his way, and in harm’s 
way, would move off. However, it did not ; there it lay, as idle 
‘as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’ There was nothing 
else for it, so the order was given to load and fire an old eight- 
pounder. The aim was pretty good, since part of the ene- 
my’s bowsprit was demolished. Again the Frenchman looked 
through his glass ; there was a great bustle on board the brig, 
and then the boats were lowered, for an attack no doubt ; and 
many were the curses that he launched at the blockheads who 
had brought him and themselves into such a scrape. When 
lo ! instead of approaching the land, the boats were observed 
to be towing the brig as fast as they could out of the little bay. 
You may imagine the triumphant exultation of these Falstaffs 
of Bordighera ; the huzzas with which they celebrated their 
bloodless victorj^ must have been heard by those on board, 
though the projectiles with which they were accompanied fell 
short of their aim. 

“ One fine day, two months later, the same brig hove in sight, 
making for Bordighera in a very decided manner, but this time 
in company with a small frigate and another brig, which came 
up right and left, bringing their guns to bear so as to command 
the high road, and cut off any succor either from the side of 
Genoa or that of Nice. This done, the first brig fired a broad- 
side, but evidently not intended to do much harm, since only 
one man was killed. At the same time, a hundred sailors and 
marines were landed, and marched straight on the battery. The 
struggle was neither long nor sanguinary ; the old eight-pounder 
was spiked, and the lieutenant and his dozen men locked into the 
guard room. It is said that only two out of the war-like citizens 
were to be discovered in the town — the mayor, Mr. Giribaldi, 


In the Boat. 


215 


was one ; the other, a hero -whose name is lost to history, who, 
at sight of the red liniforms, fired his gun at random, and ran 
away. The English carried the mayor on board the frigate, 
sentenced him to — an excellent dinner, and sent him back in 
the evening in a very jovial state, the key of the guard room 
in his pocket. Thus terminated the war between Bordighera 
and Great Britain, for at sunrise the next morning, there was 
no trace of frigate or brigs.” 

As the doctor finished his story; the latter part of which 
had tickled Sir John amazingly, the boat gently forcing its 
way through the sand, came to a full stop also. Antonio 
jumped out and o^ered his hand to Lucy ; but Lucy play- 
fully put it aside, and sprang on shore without assistance. 
Antonio uttered an exclamation of alarm. 

“ Well done, Lucy ! ” cried the baronet, who had seen th« 
whole transaction, and was highly amused by Antonio’s rue- 
ful countenance. “ Ha ! ha ! the patient is asserting her in- 
dependence, and going to give her doctor the slip.” 

What was there in these words, spoken without any malice 
prepense, nay, most good-humoredly, to cast a gloom over. 
Doctor Antonio’s brow ? He evidently attached to them a 
meaning they had not. All men, even those with healthy, 
well-balanced minds, have their hours of over-sensitiveness, 
and it is probable that our doctor was in one of those pleasant 
hours. He made no reply to Sir John’s vivacious sally, and 
walked on alone. Lucy, with that quick perceptiveness that 
affection gives, understood his silence, and, going up to his 
side, complained of being tired. Antonio immediately gave 
her his arm, and the three returned to the Osteria in unbro- 
ken silence. What party, large or small, and bent on a pleasure 
expedition, ever did return in the self-same mood in which they 
set out ?, Once at the house, Antonio took his leave, then sud- 
denly coming back, said, with what was studied carelessness, 


216 


Doctor Antonio. 


‘*By-the-by, Sir John, I think this is your forty-eighth day of 
bondage.” The color fled from Lucy’s cheek. 

“Is it?” asked Sir John, in some surprise. 

“Yes, and the day of your dehverance, also,” pursued An- 
tonio, quickly. “It is my pleasant duty to tell you, that Miss 
Davenne is sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of a jour- 
ney without danger or inconvenience.” 

Wonder of wonders ! Sir John does not leap for joy at this 
announcement, does not throw himself in a transport of grati- 
tude on his deliverer’s neck, or madly shake his hand, but lets 
him depart with an embarrassed “Ah ! indeed — very well, thank 
you,” and follows Lucy into the house without another word. 
How is it that Sir John receives this longed-for piece of news 
with such marked coolness ? Is he not the same man, who, but 
a few weeks ago, would have willingly purchased his release 
from the wretched Osteria with half his year’s income ? No, Sir 
John is not the same man — Sir John has altered. Sir John has 
grown lazy, has no energy to take a resolution, lacks the cour- 
age to say, “to-morrow, next day, next week.” The elderly 
gentleman has insensibly taken the color of the medium in 
which he is living. The sky, the sea, the soft, sweet-scented 
air, have all told upon him also. Hannibal has found his Capua. 

O Italy, fair Italy ! thine is the imperishable spell to soften 
and subdue all natures, however rugged and rebellious ; all 
on whom thy warm breath plays yield to thee. Many have 
come to thee in hatred and defiance, lance in rest, who, no 
sooner had they tasted the sweet milk of thy breast, than they 
laid down their arms, blessed thee, and called thee “ Mother.” 
Thy history is full of such conquests, O parent land of many 
beauties and sorrows ! 

Sir John sat down silently and moodily. Lucy’s intent gaze 
seemed as if it would read his innermost thoughts ; and it was 
with anxious trepidation that she awaited the result of his brown 


In the Boat 


217 


study. There was a frown on the baronet^s forehead — ^the frown 
of a man at a loss to see clearly into his own mind and feelings. 
Light dawned on him at last, and showed him the inconvenience 
of leaving Bordighera just then. His collection of plants for 
Davenne was not yet completed, and really Lucy’s health was so 
improved, it would be a pity to go away without some pressing 
necessity ; and since Aubrey could not be in London before the 
end of August at the soonest, it might be as well to let Lucy 
have as long as possible the afr which seemed to suit her. As 
he came to this conclusion. Sir John’s features relaxed and 
brightened like those of a man who had solved a riddle. “ After 
all,” said he, rising, “ it is pleasant to know that we can go away 
whenever we like, though I see no reason for setting off at once, 
as Doctor Antonio proposes, unless my darling wishes to do so.” 

“ Oh, no, papa I pray, let us stay a little longer,” replied 
Lucy, eagerly — we are so comfortable here.” 

“ Oh 1 comfortable, comfortable I” muttered the baronet, 
with a comic mixture of testiness and satisfaction ; “for my 
part, I confess I do not see these great comforts unless the 
prospect of being broiled alive in this furnace of a country, 
which will be the case in a few days, be one in your eyes. How 
ever, before it gets too hot, we shall luckily be gone.” 

Sir John involuntarily sighed, and, quite reconciled to himself 
by this little tirade, he left the room, without any suspicion that 
his daughter had sighed also, and from the depths of her young, 
innocent heart, at the thought of leaving the Osteria. Sir John 
was no exception to the rule, that all papas and mammas have 
exactly that sort of sight which distinguishes objects at a dis- 
tance clearly, while they need spectacles to see those under their 
very nose 

Thus it came to pass that two hours later, as Sir John was 
arranging his pieces on the chess-board (Lucy having retired for 
the night), he said to the taciturn doctor : “So you really think, 

10 


218 


Doctor Antonio. 


Doctor A-ntonio, that this climate agrees particularly well witl 
my daughter 

Antonio looked with some surpiise at his interlocutor, eTen 
paused an instant before answering; “You have only to 
compare the Miss Davenne of to-day with the Miss Davenne of 
a few weeks ago, to be able to answer the question yourself ; 
no more cough, color good, sleep and appetite both excel- 
\ent ” 

“ It is your opinion, then,” persisted Sir John, “ that a longei 
^tay here may tend to strengthen her constitution ?” 

Antonio felt an almost irresistible impulse to knock ovei 
^able and chess-board, to give the unsuspecting Englishman a 
4 earty hug — fathers of lovely daughters have no idea of the 
perils they run — but gloriously conquered himself, and answered 
with proper professional dignity : “I have no doubt of it 
This climate is as healthy as any in the world ; and regular, 
quiet habits, and the absence of all excitement are the real 
panacea for such delicate persons as Miss Davenne. A course 
of sea-baths during the hot season would, I am sure, do her 
good.” 

“ In that case,” replied the baronet, “ I suppose we must 
manage to remain here a little longer ; now for our game, it is 
your turn to begin.” 

They played three games that evening. Sir John was so kind 
as to be wonderfully surprised at winning them ail three. 
Antonio ail the way to Bordighera sang, “ 0 belP alma innamc- 
rata,” with an energy and expression that did credit to his iungj 
and musical taste. 


Sicily. 


319 


chapter XIV. 

S i c i 1 

Late on a warm summer evening, Sir John, Lucy, and 
Antonio, sat on the balcony, listening to the nightingales and 
watching the progress of the slow sinking moon. As the 
bright disc, lingering for a while on the top of the hill of 
Bordighera, shot, through its thick screen of trees, streams of 
light that quivered like fire, Lucy uttered a little cry of delight. 

“ Is not that like a volcano V’ asked she ; “I never saw one, 
but I fancy it must be like that and she pointed to the hill. 

“ You are right,” said Antonio ; “it is so similar that it seems 
as though I were looking on my old familiar Etna in miniature. 
It recalls to me many a happy night, when, seated on the terrace 
roof of my home in Catania, I watched the solemn signs of an 
impending eruption, and dreamed bright waking dreams of the 
future. The present,” he continued, with a sad smile, “ bears as 
little likeness to my dreaming as the red-hot hquid to the cold 
lava, that the lazzarorti shape into fanciful ornaments to catch a 
few ‘ grar,i ’ from strangers.” 

This led to many a question from Lucy, and answers fron 
the doctor, about Etna, Catania, and Sicily, in the course of 
which Antonia had more than once occasion to stigmatize, iu 
strong terms, what he called the mismanagement of his unfortu- 
nate native island Sir John could not bear this without enter 


330 


Doctor Antonio. 


iug his protest. “ Oome^ come, be just,” remonstrated tba 
baronet ; “ are kings, in a question which is one of life and 
death to them, to be allowed no right of self-defence ?” 

“Put your question the other way, and you will be nearer 
the mark,” retorted x^ntonio ; “ Is a nation to be allowed no 
right of protecting and defending its liberties and indepen- 
dence ?” 

“ Certainly,” said the baronet; “but you go too far, too far by 
a great deal ; if kings are sometimes driven to extremities, 
whose fault is it but that of the party with whom there is no 
possible transaction, I mean the ultra-democratic party, that will 
be satisfied with nothing short of implajiting republics on the 
ruins of every throne ?” 

“ Ultra-democratic party I republics I” exclaimed Antonio, in 
unfeigned amazement. “Who ever dreamed of a repubhc in 
Sicily ? If we ever come to that, and it may be the case some 
day, it will be the Bourbons’ own doing. The Sicilians are an 
essentially monarchical people ; their traditions, habits, and cus- 
toms are deeply rooted in monarchy. We owe our free institu- 
tions to kings, and through a long line of kings was Sicily 
respected and happy. When the storm of It 89 swept the Bour- 
bons of Naples from off their continental dominions, where did 
they find safe shelter, assistance of all kind, and devoted hearts, 
but in faithful, loyal Sicily ? For all which, what return they 
made, the world knows. And who helped us to consolidate 
our political edifice, I mean, who assisted in the framing of our 
Constitution of 1812 — that Constitution, in the name and 
defence of which Sicilians have been struggling and dying for 
the last eight-and-twenty years— but monarchical Great Britain 

“ Have you, then, a Parliament like ours ?” asked Lucy. 

“ We had,” answered Antonio, sadly. 

“And why has it been abolished?” inquired Lucy. “You 
promised to tell me all about S cily some day — ^pray, do so now.* 


Sicily 


221 


** That was a rash promise,” said Ai tonio, with a half smile 
** the fulfilment of which would amount to nothing less than 
giving you a summary of Sicilian history, and I scarcely think 
your patience, or Sir John’s, would last out the trial.” How- 
ever, Lucy insisted. Sir John expressed his willingness, and 
Antonio yielded. (The reader who objects to history in a work 
of fiction has only to slip over the rest of the present chapter.) 

“ Sicilian liberties,” * said Antonio, “ are contemporaneou.« 
with those of England. As early as in the eleventh century, 
Sicily, under the auspices of a J^ormau prince, like England, set- 
tled the foundations of her freedom and independence. The 
national sovereignty resided, de facto, in the parliament, who dis- 
posed of the crown of the island, and no prince ever considered 
his title good, or his power secure, unless based on an election by 
parliament. The great objection felt to the princes of the House 
of Anjou was on the score that they were imposed by the pontiff, 
and not elected by the nation. This, and no other, was the 
origin of the irritation which exploded in the Sicilian Vespers 
(1282). It was the parliament who, of its own free will, called 
to the throne the line of Arragou, in the person of Peter, and at 
a later period the Castilian, in that of Ferdinand the Catholic 
And it is not amiss to note, that, at the death of the latter, his 
successor, Charles the Fifth, was not immediately acknowledged ; 
it was not till 1518 that he received the investiture from the par- 
liament, and swore, like his predecessors, to maintain intact the 
immunities and free customs of Sicily. It may seem strange that 
the Sicilian Autonomy passed unscorched through the tire of 
three centuries of union with Spain, but our wonder will cease 
when we reflect that the bond between Spain and Sicily was 
rather nominal than real, and that during this whole period the 

♦ Memolre Hiatorlque snr les Droits PollUques de la Sidle, par MM. Bonacoor*! el 
Lumla. La SicUe et lea Bourbons, par M. Amarl, Membre du Parlement Sidlion. 
ritkal Rivolgimenti Italianl, Memorle Storiche di P. A. Gnalterlo. VoL IV. 


222 


Doctor Antonio. 


island preserved its own national representation^ its own laws^ 
its own administration, flag, coin, and army. At the war of 
succession, in the beginning of the last century, the throne ol 
Sicily was disputed along with all the other dominions of the 
deceased Charles the Second of Spain. The treaty of Utrecht 
gave Sicily to Victor Amedeus of Savoy, who, by a special clause 
of that treaty, was bound to approve, confirm and ratify all the 
privileges, immunities, customs, etc., enjoyed by the island. 
Thus the liberties of Sicily came to form part of the public right 
of Europe. But the sway of Victor Amedeus was of short 
duration, for, a little more than twenty years after. Cardinal 
Alberoni succeeded in tricking the Duke of Savoy out of Sicily, 
which once more of its own free will united itself to the fortunes 
of Spain. The Bourbons began their rule by a scrupulous obser- 
vance of the fundamental compact, and the two kingdoms of 
Naples and Sicily continued to be as independent and distinct, 
the one from the other, as during the reign of Philip the Second. 
When Charles the Third received at Palermo, in 1735, the crown 
of Sicily and the homage of the National Representation, he in 
his turn took the oath of fidelity to the constitution. And so did 
his son and successor, Ferdinand, who assumed the style of Fer- 
dinand the Third of Sicily and Fourth of Naples, in order that 
the distinction of the two kingdoms should be made clear to all 
the world. 

The first years of his reign, under the guidance of the 
enlightened Tammcci (Ferdinand was eight years of age when 
placed on the throne), gave general satisfaction as far as regards 
Sicily, and this explains how the storm of 1789 passed over the 
island without disturbing its tranquillity. Happy and secure in a 
constitution, which gave her the power of reform by pacific 
means, when necessary, why should she take part in a struggle 
that could bring her nothing better than what she already 
poseessed ? Meanwhile the thrones of Continental Europe were 


Sicily. 


22 « 


shaken from their foundations, and none more so than the Nea 
politan. Will it be believed that this was the moment chosen t(i 
aim a blow at our secular liberties, and thus estrange the faithfm 
Sicilians from their sovereign ? The Neapolitan government had 
ioined the coalition against France, and set about rahing money, 
that great sinew of war. Our parliament vras accordingly applied 
to for a monthly grant of twenty thousand ounces (ten thousand 
pounds sterling) for as long as might be required. The Sicilian 
parliament was composed of three parts, Iracda we call them, 
that is, three arms or branches of the State ; the nobility, the 
clergy, and, thirdly, the tenants of the crown, A majority of 
the whole was required for the validity of any measure. The 
clergy and nobiUty did not oppose the grant, but they objected 
to there being no period specified for its duration. The depend- 
ants of the cr^wn alone voted the supply without restriction. 
King Ferdinand, by an audacious stretch of power, ordered that 
the vote of his tenants should stand good for that of the whole 
parliament. This first attack on our rights, however, fell to the 
ground of itself ; for just as a fierce resistance was on the eve of 
breaking out, the defeat of the Austro-Neapolitan army, under 
General Mack, leaving Naples at the mercy of the French, com- 
pelled the court and its adherents to take refuge on board the 
English ships of war then in the bay. 

“ After having escaped many dangers on land, the royal fugi- 
tives had to encounter the perils of the sea. Two days after 
their embarkation a violent storm arose, during which one of the 
young princes expired ; but at length the rest were safely landed 
at Palermo. ‘ Men of Palermo,’ cried Queen Caroline, as she 
stepped on the pier, ‘ will you receive youi queen V At that 
moment all past grievances were forgotten, a general enthusiasm 
prevailed, and P^erdinand and Caroline were conducted in a sort 
of triumph to the royal palace, where they were soon surrounded 
by all their accustomed luxury. The inhabitants of Palermc 


224 


Doctor Antonio. 


could not do enough for their majesties — horses, carriagefS, 
plate and money wiere supplied in abundance. The Sicilians 
felt confident that this arrival among them was to cement a 
firmer union, and secure a more permanent good understanding 
between the nation and the sovereign. They were speedily 
undeceived. But of this period of four years, from 1799 to 
1802, when, at the Peace of Amiens, the royal family were 
restored to the throne of Naples, I shall say nothing, as it 
would be only giving Ihe same picture, but with subdued 
colors, which I shall have to paint hereafter. 

“ In the year 1806, Ferdinand and his family were obliged 
once more to fly to Sicily. Like to all the Bourbons, experience 
and misfortune preached in vain to this royal pair. Holding, as 
they did, to the hope of reconquering Naples by the aid and 
resources of Sicily, it would have seemed but natural that they 
should carefully avoid, if only out of policy, hurting the feelings 
of the islanders. But quite the contrary. First of all, the court 
laid violent hands on the Monti di Pletd, the patrimony of the 
j^oor. The money invested in the bank on government security 
by private individuals was next seized ; the property of absen- 
tees, whether that of friends or foes mattered nothing, was 
confiscated ; and the sums thus collected went to fatten the 
Neapolitan emigres who swarmed at court, and who, according 
to a grave historian. Colie tta, were nothing better than ‘ rogues, 
cowards, the worst consciences of the kingdom.’ Every post in 
the administration (and remember the court was in Sicily), every 
office, every charge, every honor, was bestowed on Neapolitans, 
and Neapolitans alone. A system of political delation was 
organized. No public place, no drawing-room, but was infested 
by spies : the very privacy of families was not safe from their 
intrusion. The government sniffed Jacobins everywhere. A 
person was imprisoned solely because he had often been seen to 
converse with a friend of his, who had been exiled on the charge 


Sicily. 


225 


of J acobinism , — pro cebris conversationibus. A citizen was ban- 
ished for having read a certain newspaper with pleasure — pro 
lecturd Gazettarum cum delectatione. There was no end to the 
petty vexations exercised against those who wore whiskers and 
pantaloons, both considered as the outward signs of Jacobinism. 

“ King Ferdinand was one of the weakest of the Spanish 
Bourbons ; so that he could hunt or fish with his low associates, 
be the king of Nimrodsor Lazzaroni, he little cared who enacted 
the part of king of the two Sicilies. His wife, the absolute, iron- 
willed, unscrupulous Caroline of Austria, ruled him completely. 
This ambitious woman could not make up her mind to the loss 
of the I^apolitan throne. The rapid and immense success and 
fortune of the Napoleon dynasty depriving her at last of all 
hope of regaining Naples by the sole help of the Sicilians, and 
of a few English vessels, she bethought herself of trying a new 
experiment. She entered into a secret negotiation with Napo- 
leon himself, through the medium of her niece, Maria Louisa. 
Napoleon kept her at bay some time, holding out hopes that 
he would finally restore Naples to her, and give her the March 
of Ancona into the bargain, provided she managed to get rid 
of the English. 

“ K the Bourbons of Naples still wore a crown, it was, un- 
doubtedly, thanks to the English, and it was not for those reap- 
ing the advantage to argue, whether there was more of self- 
interest than generosity in the opposition offered b}’’ England to 
France, wherever it was found possible. That an English fleet 
had saved the king and royal family in 1799 ; that English blood 
had been freely shed at Maida, and English gold freely spent for 
them (from 1805 the king had received a yearly subsidy of three 
hundred and eighty thousand pounds, which was raised to four 
hundred thousand in 1809) ; that from ten to fifteen thousand 
English soldiers were in the island for their protection — all these 
were notorious facts. It was natural to expect, at least, a can.- 


226 


Doctor Antonio. 


did policy from those accepting these favors. But neither com- 
mon gratitude nor common honesty were the distinguishing 
attributes of Ferdinand and his queen. The English did at last 
get scent of Caroline’s machinations. The details are up to 
this day shrouded in mystery, but damning proofs of their 
reality exist among the papers in the Foreign Office at Paris. 

“ Up to 1810, England remained an attentive but passive 
loolier-on of all that .was passing in the island ; that year, 
however, she roused herself to action. Lord Amherst was 
recalled, and Lord William Bentinck sent in his place as min- 
ister plenipotentiary from Great Britain, and commander-in- 
chief of the British forces in the Mediterranean. 

“ The English ambassador found Palermo in a high state of 
excitement, occasioned by a new outrage committed by the 
court on the very eve of his arrival. The large sums voted bj" the 
Sicilian Parliament the year before being exhausted, the king, 
urged on by his Camarilla, resolved on obtaining fresh supplies 
without troubling the representatives of the country. For this 
end, the council of state, composed, with one single exception, 
of Neapolitans, was convened, and from its deliberation ema- 
nated the three decrees which threw Palermo into such a fer- 
ment. By the first, all the landed property of religious bodies 
and of parishes was arbitrarily declared to be crown property ; 
and in order more promptly to realize the value, a second de- 
cree organized a lottery, in which the lands aforesaid were to 
be the prizes. The third established a tax of one per cent, on 
sales of whatever kind. 

“The indignation at these measures was general, and Parlia- 
ment acted as the mouthpiece of this indignation. Forty-three 
of the nobles of the baronial branch signed an energetic pro- 
testation, and had it laid before the king. He did not make 
them wait long for an answer. In the night of the 5th of July, 
181L the Princes of Belmonte, Castelnuovo, Villa Franca, Aoi, 


Sicily. 


227 


and the Duke d'Angio, considered as the ringleaders of the 
opposition, were arrested, and embarked for different prisons 
in the neighboring islands. 

“ It was just at this crisis that Lord William Bentinck ap- 
peared, and his advent was hailed by the Sicilians as that of a 
saviour. While on one side he did his best to calm the popular 
effervescence, on the other he made energetic representations to 
the king and ministers on the imprudence and folly of the course 
they had entered upon — but in vain. ‘ That fat sergeant,’ said 
the queen, who had taken a hatred of him, ‘ was sent here by 
the Prince Regent to make his bow to the king, and not to lay 
down the law.’ Unable to overcome this obstinacy, Lord Will- 
iam went back to England to explain to the Cabinet of Saint 
James’s the actual state of affairs in Sicily. After a six weeks* 
absence he returned to Palermo, and this time, with full poweiis 
to adopt any measures he deemed advisable. The Englishman 
was notone to let himself be made a fool of ; so finding that the 
conferences, to which he was continually summoned by king, 
queen, and heir-apparent, led to no answers of the very categori- 
cal demands he had presented, he cut the matter short by very 
decided conduct on his own part. He began by suspending the 
supplies of money furnished by England to the royal family, 
established his headquarters at Palermo, and brought thither 
some of the English troops from Messina. These steps producing 
no effect, he threatened to put himself at the head of his army, 
take Palermo, seize the king and queen, and send them off to 
London. As Lord William was known to be a man to keep his 
word, the business was soon settled. The king had an official 
illness, and naming the prince-royal vicar-general of the king- 
dom, he went for change of air to his park of Ficuzza. The 
queen also left Palermo ; the command of the Sicilian army 
was given to Lord William ; the five barons were set at liberty, 
and the illegal decrees annulled. At the same time, the three 


228 


Doctor Antonio. 


branches of the legislature were called together for the avowed 
purpose of reforming the constitution. 

“ The prince-vicar opened parliament in person, and after a 
speech on the subject of the intended changes, proposed the con- 
stitution of Great Britain as guide for that now contemplated 
for Sicily. This first meeting of parliament, prolonged through 
the whole of the night, and even part of the next day, will al- 
ways be marked in our annals as bearing witness to the patri- 
otic devotion of all its members. The clergy, renouncing their 
privileges, agreed to unite themselves to the barons, so as to 
form one chamber of peers. The barons, on their side, gave 
up all those hereditary rights, of which, from time immemorial, 
they had shown themselves so jealous. On that night feu- 
dality ceased to exist in Sicily. Twelve articles, after long de- 
bates, were agreed to, as those on which to raise the new con- 
stitution. As the sovereign’s sanction was necessary, the par- 
liament, unwilling to run the risk of future subterfuge, prayed 
the prince-vicar to obtain the king’s approbation before affix- 
ing his own signature. The prince wrote a letter to the king 
to that effect, and in the margin of this letter the king wrote, 
with his own hand, ‘ This being in conformity to my intention, 
I authorize you to do it.’ 

“Notwithstanding this, the court party was busy hatching a 
plot against the openly approved-of reform . A day was fixed on 
for the king to go to the Church of St. Francis, to return thanks 
for his recovery ; and under cover of this pretext, a demonstra- 
tion against the constitution was to be made. But the royal 
conspirators had forgotten to take Lord William Bentinck into 
their reckoning. Some artillery appeared in the streets, and 
there was a military parade, — significant hints that stifled the 
demonstration in its birth. The king gave up St. Francis, and 
contented himself with saying his prayers at home. But the 
lesson was lost upon him, or rather upon the incorrigible Caro* 


229 


Sicily. 

line. Nothing daunted, she prepared another coup-de-main, for 
the execution of which she trusted to Sicilian troops stationed 
at Trapani and Corleone. The object in contemplation was to 
get rid at once of the English and the constitution. But Lord 
William was once more too much for her. All attempts at 
persuasion proving unavailing, coercive measures were resorted 
to. A regiment of cavalry, to begin with, surrounded the royal 
dwelling during the night, and blockaded it completely. Then 
onl}^ and not till after many a shift and evasion, did Ferdinand 
yield to stern necessity, and agree to Lord William’s condi- 
tions, which were, — That the queen should leave Sicily at 
once ; that the government should be once more confided to 
the prince-royal ; and that the alter ego conferred upon him 
should be without restriction. 

“This victory over the court party, together with the absence 
of the queen, restored something like tranquillity to the country. 
During this calm, the parliament continued its work of reform, 
and several important clauses were added to the constitution, — 
among them one regulating the succession to the crown, and 
establishing the independence of Sicily. The article is literally 
as follows : — ‘ In the event of the King of Sicily recovering the 
throne of Naples, or, indeed, acquiring any other crown, he 
shall be bound to put in his place, upon the throne of Sicily, 
his eldest son, or he shall leave his son in the island, and give it 
up to him, declaring from the present date, Sicily independent 
of Naples, and of all other kingdoms or governments. ’ In May, 
1813, the constitution of 1812, as it was called, was promul- 
gated, and Lord William Bentinck, believing his task finished in 
Sicily, went to Spain. His back, however, was scarcely turned, 
when the new political edifice was vigorously attacked. Though 
Queen Caroline was absent, her spirit still ruled at court ; and 
not only was every effort made to throw discredit on the consti- 
tution, but everything was tried to excite the popular mind 


230 


Doctor Antonio. 


4^binst the English. Lord William Bentinck retunitd in time 
to reconquer the ground lost in his absence, but he was soon 
ordered to Leghorn and Genoa. It was as though the good 
genius of Sicily had departed with him 

“ I shall leave undescribed the hand-to-hand struggle for and 
against liberty that ensued between the nation and the king, 
and hasten to the catastrophe. After the fall of Napoleon, the 
English evacuated Sicily. Then followed the negotiations at 
Vienna, the surprise of the emperor’s return, the stir and tumult 
of the Hundred days, and the final victory of the allies. Murat’s 
dethronement, decided on a^ Vienna, restored to the Bourbons 
their dominions on ttrra hrma, and Ferdinand, leaving the heir- 
apparent at Palermo, weni at once to Naples. The signing of 
the general treaty of the Congress of Vienna took place in June, 
1815, and in December of the following year appeared those two 
famous edicts, which erased the name of Sicily, as an indepen- 
dent kingdpm, from the map of Europe. 

“ By the first of these edicts, purporting to be based on the 
104th article of the Treaty of Vienna, Ferdinand cancelled the 
separate titles under which he had reigned over Naples and 
Sicily, adopted the style of Ferdinand the First of the united 
kingdom of the two Sicilies, and, by uniting the two crowns, 
annihilated at one blow the independence, the national flag, and 
coin of the island. By the second, with a strange want of logic, 
the constitution was at once suppressed and maintained, for the 
king, while claiming as his royal prerogative the right of fixing 
the taxes, nevertheless engaged himself never to raise their 
amount beyond the figure decided on by the parliament of 1813 
* No increase (such were the words used) can tc*ke place without 
the consent of parliament.’ 

“ I said that the first decree purported to be based on an 
article the Treaty of Vienna. I should have said pre- 

tended, for, after all, it was a quibble. The terms used in th« 


Sicily. 


231 


Treaty were these; — ‘ King Ferdinand the Fourth is re-established, 
himself, his heirs, and successors, on the throne of Naples, ano 
hereby recognized by the powers as king of the kingdom of the 
Two Sicilies.^ Now, this arrangement could neither in its form 
nor subetance affect Sicily. The agents sent by Ferdinand to 
""'ienna were sent to discuss an affair purely personal to himself — 
his restoration, namely, to his lost throne of Naples. The 
interests of Sicily were not mixed up in this matter — Sicily had 
nothing to do or to say to the Congress of Vienna — had not 
even a representative there. The king and the Chevalier Mediof 
figured before it solely on account of the Neapolitan dominions. 
This is so true, that it was only as Ferdinand the Fourth of 
Naples, and not under the conjoined title of Ferdinand the Third 
of Sicily, that the king was named in the acts of the Congress. 
]'t is also to be presumed, that, if the powers assembled at Vienna 
had really intended to merge the two countries into one, they 
'fould have declared such an intention clearly and without cir- 
cumlocution, as they did when the annexation of Warsaw to 
Kussia, Belgium to Holland, and Genoa to Piedmont, was stipu- 
lated. It is to be supposed, that the conditions of such a union, 
as in the other cases, would have been specified. Nothing of 
this is to be found in the Art. 104th. It simply says, ‘ Ferdinand 
is recognized as king of the kingdom of the Two Sicilies.’ Can 
it be seriously argued for a moment, that the form of the singular 
given to the word kingdom instead of the plural — a single letter 
more or less in a word — be sufficient grounds to go on to destroy 
a right founded on ages ? 

“ So much for Sicilian independence. As for Sicilian liberties 
Ferdinand had provided himself with a plausible pretext for get- 
ting rid of them in a treaty secretly concluded with Austria By 
this treaty it was declared that ‘ His Majesty the king of the 
Two Sicilies, in resuming the government of his kingdom, shall 
not admit any innovation which can interfere in any way with 


232 


Doctor Antonio. 


\he aiicient monarchical institntions, or with the system and pria 
ciples adopted by his imperial and royal majesty in the internar 
government of his Italian (the Lombardo-Venetian) provinces 
Hart this convention been aimed against the Sicilian coustitutioi 
it would only have been one proof more of Ferdinand’s perfidy 
and treachery, and could never have been considered as binding 
on Sicily. But the words of the treaty prove that only Naples 
was and could be meant. The possession of the kingdom, and 
the changes to be or not to be effected, were spoken of in the 
future. Now, in the first place, Ferdinand had never lost aup 
thing in Sicily, the prince-vicar having administered the affairs 
of the island as his delegate ; and secondly, the changes in 
Sicily had been consummated three years previous to the abo^e 
convention ; and far from being incompatible with monarchical 
institutions, they had been made with the view of re-establishing 
the monarchy in its former conditions, and of restoring to vigor 
laws which had been sworn to by thirty monarchs, one after the 
other. But of what avail is right without might ? Those who 
had the power would not use it in our behalf. The English cabi* 
net haggled a little with the Neapolitan ministers as to the more 
or less of nominal privileges to be left us, but on the main point, 
independence, we were abandoned to our fate” 

Sir John made a movement as if to speak, but the Italian 
resumed with a smile — 

“ I am only repeating historical facts. Sir John. The fault of 
«rhat happened, perhaps, lies less with individuals than with the 
fircumstances of the time. Peace was the great desideratum of 
Europe, and to that desire Sicily was sacrificed. When I say 
tacrijiced, I am only echoing opinions publicly held and expressed, 
both in and out of the British parliament, by distinguished fellow^ 
countrymen of your own. Lord William Bentinck, than whom 
no better authority on the subject, said, in June, 1821, — ‘What 
I complain of is, that libertv was not givef' to a people to whom 


Sicily 


263 


[1 w^as promised In fact, I look on onr national honor af 
p^'^dged to see the promise fulfilled. As to the instructions sent 
from England,' I must own that, had I framed them myself, even 
the deep interest I feel in the Sicilians, could have suggested 
nothing better. But what has been done to enforce these instruc- 
tions ? Nothing. Received with hope and joy by the Sicilians, 
by what were they followed ? By the union of the two king- 
doms. This act of union was not a mere violation, it was 
Jie complete overthrow of the Sicilian constitution. It annihi 
lated the rights of the nation, and made Sicily a province e 
Naples.^ I cannot vouch for these being Lord William’s exacv. 
words, as I am quoting from memory,” continued the doctor, 
“ but I am positive as to their meaning. Sir James Mackintosh 
was another who took a similar view of the subject. But enough 
of this. 

“ Bo I need to say that parliament was never assembled, and 
that both the letter and the spirit of the so-called concessions of 
1816 were daily infringed ? Public irritation increased with 
each passing hour, and an outbreak was at hand, when the revo- 
lution of 1820 exploded at Naples, and was followed by the pro- 
clamation of the constitution of Spain. The moment seemed 
favorable to the Sicilians for the securing of their ancient inde- 
pendence by peaceful means. A deplorable misunderstanding, 
however, brought on a collision between the people and the 
Neapolitan soljiers quartered in Palermo, in which the former 
were victors. A provisional junta was formed, with full powers 
on the best measures for re-establishing the independence of the 
island. This junta sent a deputation to the king at Naples to 
demand an independent government for Sicily, with the prince- 
royal at the head of it. These demands were not listened to. 
The Neapolitan parliament claimed to absorb Sicily in the name 
of two very opposite principles : — 1st, the divine right of the 
king confirmed by the treaty of Vienna ; 2Qly, the right of 


234 


Doctor Antonio. 


democracy, which could not allow so aristocratic a constitution 
as that of 1812 to subsist in Sicily. Unfortunate^ the island 
was divided against itself by the partisans of the constitution of 
Sicily and of that of Spain. An army was sent from Naples, 
and in the month of September the siege of Palermo was com- 
menced. After a fortnight of obstinate fighting, a capitulation 
was signed, which left to, the Sicilian parliament the solution of 
the question of independence. But the f)arliament of Naples 
took upon itself to annul this capitulation, as ono dishonoring the 
Neapolitan army ; it retained, nevertheless, the arms and forti- 
fications which had been given up in virtue of the agreement. 
While the two countries were thus quarrelling with each other, 
what was King Ferdinand doing ? He was gone to Layback 
and Troppau to solicit Austrian interference against that very 
constitution to which he had so solemnly sworn in the month 
of July of 1820. What mattered one perjury more or less to 
the old king ? A few months afterwards the Austrians occu- 
pied Naples and Sicil}^ and the two countries who had not 
been able to agree to live respectively free, now groaned 
under the yoke of a common slavery. 

Ferdinand died in 1825. He was succeeded by his son 
Francis, who, as prince-royal, had taken the oaths to the con- 
stitution of 1812, in 1820 to that of Spain, who had even par- 
ticipated in the armed protestation against the foreign occupa- 
tion of 1821. But ill ascending the throne, Francis I. lost his 
memory, and followed without hesitation in the paternal foot- 
steps. The whole five years this reign lasted, the government 
was fioundering in a bog. The spread of corruption, both at 
Naples and in Sicily, was incredible. Everything was to be 
bought, everything to be sold ; offices, honors, titles, even justice 
itself, was in the market. Viglia, the king’s valet, and Cate- 
rina de Simone, the Queen’s first camerista, were the two most 
influential persons of the kingdom, and through them most of the 


Sicily 


236 


infamous bargains were concluded. The king did not attempt tc 
veil his cognizance of all that was going on ; he was, on the 
contrary, profuse of his cynical witticisms on the subject. In 
1828, the world had proof that he was to the full as cruel as he 
was despicable. An attempt at insurrection in the town of 
Cosenza and in the province of Salerno, was literally quomched in 
iood. By order of Del Carretto, the king^s other self, the 
dttle town of Bosco was cannonaded till it was reduced to ruing 
and then a column of infamy raised to show where once it stoo^ 
The last days of Francis are said to have been tormented by 
vain remorse. He died in 1830, leaving to Ferdinand, the 
reigning king, a degraded, impoverished, and highly irritated 
kingdom. 

“ Young Ferdinand’s early measures (he was scarcely twenty) 
augured well. Most of the ministers, creatures, and favorites of 
the late king were gradually dismissed ; Yiglia was sent away ; 
days of public audience were established ; and a manifesto 
issued declaring it to be Ferdinand’s determination to restore 
order to the dilapidated finances of the country. These were 
most popular measures. Nor was Sicily left without her quota 
of promises. It was the king’s intention, as distinctly stated in 
his manifesto, ‘ to seek to heal the wounds inflicted on Sicily by 
his father and grandfather.’ The dismissal of the Marquis della 
Favara, lieutenant-general of the island, a man universally 
detested, and the appointment in his stead, of the Count of 
Syracuse, his majesty’s own brother, made the good islanders 
believ# that the new sovereign was in earnest. Consequently 
when in 1831, he visited Sicily, his reception was most enthu- 
siastic. Unfortunately the sequel belied the commencement. 
What had appeared pure love of justice, was in truth mere king- 
craft. The shock of the revolution of the three days in France 
was still reverberating throughout Europe, and our king was 
wise enough to see the expediency of soothing and conciliatinjf 


236 


Doctor Antonio. 


the people, still under the smart of the ignoble misgovernment of 
Francis. 

“But as the danger diminished, so did the king resume his 
natural disposition. The first symptom of the reaction which 
was taking place in Ferdinand^s mind, was the nomination of Del 
Carretto, the exterminator of Bosco, as minister of police. This 
fatal man and Monsieur Code, the king’s confessor, soon acquired 
1 ?^ complete ascendency of the young monarch. Jesuitism* and 
tne police became presently the two cornerstones of the State. 
Everything had been marketable in the preceding reign — matt^ 
were no better now — Monsieur Code and Del Carretto playing 
the part of the ci-devant Carnerwre and Camerista. The punish- 
ment of flogging, which had been first known in the two Sicilies 
during the Austrian occupation of 1821, was re-established under 
the present administration. It was not long ere all the new-born 
illusions of the Sicilians vanished. The government seemed 
imbued with the desire of poisoning rather than healing old 
wounds. Our parliament was no more spoken of than if such a 
thing had never existed — it was a crime only to name it ; yet 
the taxes had risen far beyond the amount fixed by the decree 
of December, 1816, and in spite of the engagement entered into, 
that they should not be augmented without the consent of par- 
liament. The abrupt recall of the Count of Syracuse, in 1835, 
brought the popular discontent to a climax. 

“ In the summer of 1836, the cholera made its appearance at 
Naples. Up to that time, the quarantine regulations between 
Naples and Sicily had been extremely severe and vexatious. 
But when the terrible scourge was actually in Naples, the sani- 

* The king’s infatuation for this famous order went so fai in subsequent years, as to 
appoint, by a royal rescript, its founder, St. Ignatius de Loyola, field-marshal of th« 
army, with the pay and appurtenances attached to the rank. The money was actually 
paid to the Chief House of Jesuits, at Naples. See Gli ulUmi Bivolgimmti ItaUwniy 
Memorie Storiohe, di F. A. Ghtaiterio. VoL IV., chap. xUx., p. 76. Flormee^ FMc 4 

Monn/itr^ 1868. 


Sicily. 


)37 

tary cordons so strictly maintained while it was still as far off as 
Russia, all at once were disregarded and neglected. This incon 
sistency gave rise to a very universal belief that the king and his 
ministers were in league to send the cholera into Sicily. The 
epidemic reached Palermo but too soon, and no city, I believe, 
suffered more cruelly from its ravages. Out of a population of 
1 to, 000 inhabitants, 24,000 perished in a month. The general 
terror quickly lashed itself into a general delirium The idea 
that the government was poisoning the people by wholesale got 
abroad. An infant suspicion of this kind once born, soon 
becomes a full-grown certainty. 

“ Mario Adorno, one of those who had writhed most violently 
under the loss of Sicilian independence, ^ook advantage of the 
prevailing excitement, to bring about an insurrectionary move- 
ment in Syracuse, where he shortly after proclaimed the consti- 
tution. Catania immediately followed the example, raised the 
Sicilian standard, tore down the statues of the Bourbons, and 
formed a provisional government. Partial risings took place 
also in the valley of Messina, and in the small towns adjacent to 
Palermo, where the belief in the poisoning plot was deeply 
rooted. Furnished with unlimited sovereign power, and accom- 
panied by a strong body of troops, Del Carretto was sent to 
Sicily, less to conquer than to reap the fruits of victory ; for, by 
the time he landed all revolution was over. In fact, the news of 
his expedition having reached the Catanians, they, finding them- 
selves unsupported, of their own accord effected a counter-revo- 
lution. All those most compromised sought safety in flight, with 
the exception of Mario Adorno, who was taken and shot. The 
absence of all resistance in no way induced the destroyer of 
Bosc(v 10 forego one cruelty in his power. Courts-martial were 
establisaod everywhere, and citizens sent by thousands to prison. 
Several hrmdreds were condemned to death, and no less than a 
hundred un;.^rwent the penalty. At Bagheria, a boy of fou^ 


23 « 


Doctor Antonio. 


teen years of age Tas shot. Executions took place lo the sound 
of military music. Such, indeed, was the rage for killing, that 
once, after one of these direful exhibitions, when the corpses 
were counted over, one more than the appointed number wes 
found. 

“ The noble conquest being achieved, and the noble conqueror 
rewarded with the insignia of San Gennaro, the real meaning of 
the bloody tragedy was speedily revealed by the ofiScial acts 
which followed. The king gladly seized on the pretext which 
hftd been thus offered him, to do away at once with even the 
shadow of the last remaining Sicilian franchises. The substance 
had long ago vanished. The taxes were augmented, the admin- 
istration was filled with Neapolitans, a thorough system of cen- 
tralization in Naples adopted, all vestige of municipal liberty, of 
Ihe liberty of the press, of association, of petition, was destroyed. 
To make a long story short, nothing was left -^o Sicily but eyes 
60 weep, and the undying memory of her rights, '^his memory, 
ftnd the consciousness of the righteousness of her cause, will sup 
port that noble and unfortunate country through all her iiiais, 
until a day of reckonimc comes for her as come it surelv will.” 

iintonio wipea the drops of perspiration from his brow — less 
the effect of heat than of deep emotion. Lucy was scarcely less 
moved, and it was almost in a whisper that she said, “You have 
not told us what obliged you to leave Catania.” 

“True,” answered Antonio ; “all recollection of my individual 
troubles was lost in that of our national catastrophe. Indeed, 
few will be able to credit that such a trivial incident as I have 
to mention could be sufficient in any country to force a man into 
exile. I had taken no share in the disturbances in my native 
town. Not that my Sicilian heart did not beat fast and loud 
at the sacred names of Independence and Liberty — not that T 
did not sympathize with and approve of the struggle, in spite of 
the sad forebodings that filled my mind as to the issue of ar 


239 


Sicily. 

insulated attempt ; but my every hour was occupied by profes- 
sional duties. The cholera, though less deadly than at Palermo, 
was nevertheless making sad havoc in Catania, and day and 
night I w’as in requisition. One evening in the month of 
March, I was called to the bedside of a dear friend who had 
been suddenly taken ill. I had but just time to recognize the 
first symptoms of the prevalent malady, when a party of sol- 
diers entered the room. An order for the arrest of my friend 
had been issued, and a sergeant at the head of half a dozen 
men were sent to seize his person. The poor sick creature 
was desired to get out of bed and prepare to accompany the 
soldiers. I interfered, and making known my name and pro- 
fession, I said, that to remove my friend in his actual state was 
eauivalent to killing him, and I therefore cautioned the ser- 
geant as to the heavy responsibility he was taking upon him- 
self. The answer I received was, that precise orders had been 
given, and that, dead or alive, my friend must go ; saying 
which, the sergeant drew the blankets off the bed. I lost all 
self-control at the brutal act. I do not know to this day what 
I did or said, but it ended by my being handcuffed, forced 
out of the house, and marched through the streets. 

We had not proceeded far when we were met by an officer, 
one of high rank, too, as far as I could judge in the growing 
darkness. He stopped my escort and asked some questions of 
the sergeant. ‘ A physician ! ’ I heard the stranger exclaim ; 
‘this is surely not the time to arrest physicians, my good 
friend.’ After a little more parley I was freed of the mana- 
cles ; the officer took me by the arm, and led me one way, 
while the sergeant and his men went the other. Being close 
to him, I now saw by his epaulettes that my companion was 
a general officer. ‘ Where do you wish to go ? ’ he asked. I 
named the street where I lived. He saw me to my own door, 
and as he took leave of me, he said, ‘ These are difficult times. 


240 


Doctor Antonio. 


and a charge of rebellion is a very serious one. Had I any 
advice to give you, it would be to get out of the way as soon 
as possible ; ’ and with these words he left me. This was the 
circumstance which led to my exile. Far less than I had said 
or done that day had cost many a man his life. My mother 
and uncle insisted on my following my unknown friend’s coun- 
sel, and so I did. Since then, I have become acquainted wi^th 
his name, and with the fact that I am not the only one whose 
life he has succeeded in saving. God bless him ! I am proud 
and happy to say that he is a Sicilian ! ” 

And your sick friend ? ” asked Lucy. 

“Dead, young lady, dead, a few hours after I left him. I 
knew of his death before sailing. They had not dared to take 
him away, but had contented themselves with leaving a guard 
to watch his dying agonies.” 


Progress to the Sanctuary 


Ul 


Chapter XV. 

Progress to the Sanctuary. 

All difficulties in the waj of Battista and Speranza’s marriage 
being now removed by a splendid grant from Sir John of two 
hundred pounds, three-S'fths of which were sufficient to cover all 
the debts of the family, and the remaining eighty pounds more 
than enough to make the Osteria a profitable, nay, brilliant 
business, it was settled that the two lovers should be married on 
the 25th of June, Speranza’s birthday. Now, in every age and 
in every country, birth, marriage, and death, have always been 
escorted by preliminaries and ceremonies of one kind or another 
In the present case, a pilgrimage to the sanctuary of Lampedusa 
was deemed especially necessary, that our Fromessi sposi might 
pay their devotions, and offer their thanks (in the shape of 
exvotos) to the lady of that name, to whose intercession they 
owed such a bright change of fortune. For Rosa, and Speranza, 
and Battista, as, indeed, nearly the whole of the parish of Bor- 
dighera, held it as an article of faith, that the Madonna in 
general, and the Madonna of Lampedusa in particular, had 
brought Lucy, and all the blessings that had come with her, to 
the Osteria ; — thus unconsciously laying that mischievous trick 
of the overturn of the carriage at the Madonna^s door. Lucy^s 
interest and cniiosity being greatly excited by the idea of this 
pilgrimage^ it came to be arranged that Sir J ohn and his daugb 


«42 


Doctor Ante mo. 


ter should take the same time to visit the famous shrine, and 
breathe the fresh air of the mountain for a couple of days ; that 
Doctor Antonio, of course, should be of the party, and that to 
him should be intrusted the care of all the preparations for the 
trip, and arrangements for the sojourn at Lampedusa. 

On the 20th of June then, Sir John, his daughter, anti 
Antonio — the betrothed were not to come up till next morning 
— ^left the Osteria in a small boat, with a gaily striped red 
and white awning, commanded by Battista, and at which he had 
been hard at work for more than a week, cleaning, painting, 
and trimming, to do honor to the occasion. Under the com- 
bined action of a sail tolerably well puffed by a little breeze, and 
of three pair of vigorous oars, they were not long in doubling the 
second headland. San Remo — bright, verdant San Remo, rising 
up in the form of a triangle, and smiled upon by its seven hills, 
claj all over in most luxurious vegetation, then broke full on 
their view. 

“ Do palm-trees grow naturally in this part of the country 
asked Lucy, pointing to the plantations that covered the shore ; 
“ or are they cultivated for beauty’s sake 

“ Their beauty, I believe, is their least merit in the eyes of 
their proprietors,” answered Antonio. “ Palms, you do not per- 
haps know, are a very profitable kind of property, and that is 
why they are cultivated. Cargoes of them are sent yearly to 
France and Holland. In all the Catholic countries the consump- 
tk)n of palms during Passion-week is very great : but throughout 
Italy, and especially at Rome, it is enormous. There is a family 
of San Remo, which has held for centuries, and still holds, the 
exclusive privilege of furnishing palms to what is called ‘ The 
Apostolic Palace,’ that is, to the household of the Pope.” 

“ W as the monopoly purchased ?” inquired Sir John. “ 1 need 
scarcely ask, however, for I have been told that everything ig, 
e’^er was. and ever will be sold at Rome.” 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


24S 


** Contrary to the rule,” replied the doctor, “ this privilege was 
given in acknowledgment of good service. The story, such as it 
is, may amuse, you, and help to while away the time till we land 
You have, I dare say, seen and admired in Rome the obelisk 
which stands in Piazza San Pietro, or Yaticano, and itself goes 
by the name of Yaticano. This obelisk, in 1584, that is, during 
the first years of the Pontificate of Sixtus Y., was still lying half- 
buried in the earth, not far from the ancient vestry of San Pietro 
Many a pope before Sixtus had formed plans for having it disin- 
terred and removed to the Piazza San Pietro, but had always 
been deterred by the great difficulties and expenses of the under- 
taking. Pope Sixtus Y., an ambitious and enterprising spirit, as 
everybody knows, made up his mind to realize that which his pre- 
decessors had only thought about. He confided the arduous task 
to Dominico Fontana, an architect of great renown, liberally fur- 
nishing him with all the necessary means for its success. The 
mechanics of that period were far behind those of the present 
day; and it was found no easy matter to free from the ground in 
which it was sunk, and transfer without injury to the place where 
it was intended to stand, a monolith of such portentous magni- 
tude. These two preliminary acts, however, were successfully 
performed in the course of a year. But the final and most 
delicate operation, that of raising the stupendous bulk upright, 
still remained to be accomplished. All the preparations for this 
purpose being at last completed, Fontana went to the pope and 
requested him to fix a day for the elevation. The pope did so, 
and promised to honor with his presence a ceremony which could 
not fail to attract from all parts an immense concourse of people. 

‘ That is what most alarms me,^ said the architect ; ‘ should 
the noise of the crowd bewilder the workmen, and prevent my 
slightest direction from being attended to, I can answer for 
nothing.^ 

“ ‘Never fear,^ said Pope Sixtus, *I will take good care of 


244 


Doctor Antonia 


that 'y and he instantly penned an edict, by which he made 
known, that whosoever uttered a sound during the erection of the 
column, should suffer death. This proclamation, with the tre- 
mendous papal seal afl&xed to it, was without delay placarded 
on the walls of Rome. 

On the day settled, Fontana, after having confessed, taken 
the sacrament, and received the pope’s benediction, mounted the 
high scaffolding from which he was to superintend the great 
work. His orders were to be signified by means of bells, and of 
divers colored flags, so that the workmen out of hearing could 
understand and execute them. The Piazza Vaticano, crowded to 
suffocation, looked as if paved with heads ; and a great and 
Imposing sight it must have been to behold that countless multi- 
tude remain, by the will of one man, as motionless and silent, as 
if, instead of living people, it were composed of statues. Pope 
Sixtus, from the lofty seat prepared for him, looked down upon 
the assembled throng, standing thus spell-bound before him. 

“ At last the signal is given, the capstans begin to wind, the 
pulleys to revolve, the cables and ropes to stretch and strain, 
and creak. Up, up, slowly rises the granite monster. Fontana 
waves his flags, the pope stoops eagerly forward, the thousands 
below hold their breath — a minute more and the huge monolith 
will be erect. All at once an ominous crack is heard, the obe- 
lisk is motionless for a second, then sinks some inches ; the ropes 
no longer bear upon it. The pope frowns, — all Rome turns pale. 
Fontana’s presence of mind forsakes him. ‘Water I water I’ 
shouts a voice on a sudden ; ‘ wet the ropes.’ Fontana obeys 
the blessed prompting ; water is thrown on the ropes, the slack- 
ened hemp contracts, once more the workmen bend to their 
work with a will. The majestic column is upreared, and stands 
before the admiring world, another glorious proof of man’s daring 
and ingenuity. 

** He whose timely interference had brought about this result. 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


245 


was the captain of a trading vessel, named Bresca, a native of 
San Remo ; one who in his seafaring life had probably had some 
similar experience of the slackening of hempen ropes. In spite, 
however, of the undeniable service he had rendered, the Swiss 
Guards, who knew of no virtue but obedience, of no crime but 
disobedience to their master, seized on Bresca, and brought him 
before the pope. The known severity of Sixtus V , a severity 
frequently amounting to wanton cruelty, left little hope of the 
captain’s life being spared. Fortunately, the success of the 
undertaking he had had so much at heart, disposed the pope to 
be lenient — we ought to say, to be just — towards the man who 
had so materially contributed to that success. His holiness, 
then, contrary to general expectation, received Bresca cour- 
teously, and promised to grant any favor he might ask. The 
good captain, as a matter of course, begged first the pope’s holy 
olessing, and secondly, the privilege for him and his descendants, 
of yearly furnishing the Apostolic Palace with palms. This 
request was immediately conceded by a Papal brief, which fur- 
ther conferred on Bresca the title and grade of captain in the 
pontifical army, and the right of w^earing the uniform, and of 
hoisting the Papal flag on his vessel. This brief is still in the 
possession of the Bresca family, and the monopoly it bestowed 
lasts to this day.” 

“ Still, I think, this Pope Sixtus must have been a hateful 
man,” exclaimed Lucy. 

“ Certainly not an amiable one,” observed Antonio. “ One 
can scarcely help shrinking from the skillful surgeon who cuts 
deep into the human frame, although we know that the most 
humane motives arm his hand. The task of Sixtus Y. was of a 
somewhat similar nature. When he came to be the head of 
Church and State, both were in so rotten a condition, that only 
heroic remedies, if any — the free use of knife and scalpel — could 
heal them ; and these he applied unflinchingly, unsparingly 


246 


Doctor Antonio. 


Men are but what circumstances make them — a truce to moral- 
izing, for here we are at the end of our voyage,” added the doc- 
tor^ looking around — “ and there, just in front of us, between 
those two gently receding mountains, the little valley of Taggia 
stretches inland ; and that river falling into the sea, a hundred 
paces a-head of us to the east, is the Argentina, the pride of the 
inhabitants of the dale, and now and then their scourge, as when 
chafed by mountain torrents it roars like a mad bull, and carries 
everything before it.” 

A walk of two minutes brought our party to a cross-way 
formed by the Taggia road, and the high road to Nice meeting 
at right angles, and where an open carriage was in waiting for 
them. Their drive was now through plantations of olive-trees, 
whose branches closing from either side of the way, made a green 
canopy over their heads. 

“ What capital studies for a painter, these twisted gnarled 
trunks would make I” cried Lucy j “ I never saw such a number 
of odd picturesque shapes.” 

“ Whatever may be said,” observed Antonio, “ of the monoto- 
nous effect of olives seen in masses, we cannot deny the individual 
tree credit for variety and originality of form.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Lucy ; “ for my part I confess to a 
foible for the olive-tree. It speaks to my heart and imagination. 
It recalls to my mind the branch-symbol of peace that the dove 
brought back to Noah ; the moving forest of olive-boughs that 
welcomed our Saviour on His entry into Jerusalem ; the garden 
where He prayed and suffered.” Heally, Lucy, as these holy 
associations awoke in her mind, did look very like one of Guido’s 
divine Madonnas, at least Antonio did not wonder at Battista’s 
mistake any more. 

“ Pray, doctor,” said she, after a pause, “ let me have one of 
those twigs that hang overhead.” Antonio having comphea, 
Lucy examined the leaves, dark dead-green on one side, and 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


247 


silvery-grey on the other, then said, “ Are those little white balls 
hanging in bunches the fruit ?” 

“ They are,” answered Antonio ; “and if the weather permits, 
by next January, those same small white things will be trans 
formed into glossy black berries, which, ground in mills, furnish 
the well-known oil. After that, the crushed kernel, washed and 
dried, makes excellent fuel, while the dead leaves are used as 
manure. The olive-wood, as you already know, is much prized 
by cabinetmakers for their finest articles; so, you see, no part of 
the tree but has a value.” 

“How comes it, then,” asked Sir John, “that with so rich 
a product at their very doors, the people of this country are 
poor ?” 

“ The apparent contradiction is easily explained,” replied 
Antonio. “ In the first place, you must understand, that only 
once in three years there is a good crop, that is to say, only 
every third year are the trees well covered with the white balls 
/ou are now looking at, which, remember, are, after all, the pro- 
mise, and nothing more, of a rich harvest. For these little balls 
have to remain on the tree from April or May, when they form, 
until the following January when they are to be gathered, and, 
as they are of a very dehcate constitution, likely to be equally 
injured by extremes of any kind, whether of heat, or cold, 
drought, rain, or wind, you may easily imagine the risks and 
losses they are liable to during so long an interval as that of 
eight or nine months. Add to this, that the cultivation of the 
olive is expensive, the tree needing, at least every fourth year, 
plenty of a particular and a very dear manure, consisting of 
woollen rags and the horns and hoofs of cattle ; that at certain 
seasons the earth round each tree must be dug to give air to the 
roots ; that the muricduoli, or little walls of the terraces, which 
support the soil of our mountainous districts, are continually 
requiring repairs, while, as a climax, the cost of gathering the 


248 


Doctor Antonio. 


fruit, and making the oil, is calculated to be twenty Qve per 
cent, of the net produce. Bearing all this in mind, y( i will, I 
think, cease to wonder at so I’ch a product affording ^ dly poor 
incomes.” 

Sir John, far from assenting to the doctor^s ex ianation, 
shook his head, as much as to say, there must be bar manage- 
ment somewhere ; but as they had now come in sight J the two 
dark, ivy-festooned towers which command the appi. ach to the 
town, the conversation took a different turn. 

“ Many a fierce assault of the Saracens has beei oravely met 
and repulsed here,” observed the doctor, as he assi <!ed his com- 
panions to alight. “ Down to a comparatively * «cent period, 
this Riviera has been infested by Barbary eor3;..rs, who took 
advantage of the unguarded state of the coast, v ^d the want of 
easy communication between town and cj)wn, U/ pounce upon a 
given point, and accomplish their only object plunder, before 
help from other parts could be procured, "i'es, indeed,” conti- 
nued Antonio, answering the mute wonder expressed in Lucy’s 
eyes ; “ there are persons still alive who recollect a descent of 
the kind, when a convent of friars was broken into, and most of 
the monks carried off. It was the policy of the most Serene 
Republic of Genoa, at all times, out of jealousy of her near 
neighbor, France, to prevent any carriage road being made 
between the capital and this part of her dominions ; and but 
half a century ago, a journey from Genoa here was considered, 
and really was a difficult and rather dangerous undertaking.” 

“ Not much to boast of yet, as to safety, doctor ; your Pros- 
pero was almost as bad as a corsair,” said Sir John, laughing. 

“ Ah, indeed I” retorted the doctor, in the same tone ; “ still, 
I hope, Bordighera has not been quite so bad as Algiers oi 
Tunis.” 

“ Not quite, not quite,” returned Sir John, good-humore il|' 
“ Then this fine road is a modern work ?” continued he. 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 249 

** Entirely so,” replied Antonio “ the actual Cornice road 
was only completed in 1828, and we owe it to the following accn 
dent : Charles Felix, the then reigning sovereign, was extremely 
partial to Nice, where he often resided. His road from Turin 
thither was naturally by the Col di Tenda. It so happened, that 
during one of these visits to Nice, there was a heavy fall of 
snow, rendering the return to Turin by the usual route impossi- 
ble. The only alternative was to go by water to Genoa, from 
whence his majesty could easily reach his capital. He accord- 
ingly embarked, but the weather was so boisterous, and the sea 
BO heavy, he was obliged to put back. The people of the 
Riviera, who had long been vainly endeavoring to obtain permis- 
sion to open a road along the coast, seized the opportunity thus 
offered to them. I ought to have said before, that the govern- 
ment of Piedmont, along with the ancient States of the Repub- 
lic of Genoa, had inherited also its prejudices against a road to 
France. So the populations of all the towns and villages turned 
out en masse, headed by the mayors and cures, gaps were filled, 
and rocks removed, in an incredibly short space of time. ‘ Here, 
your majesty, is a road at your service,^ cried out every voice ; 
and his majesty was graciously pleased to accept of the accom- 
modation. Red-hot orders arrived from Turin, commanding the 
Riviera to let alone road-making — a day too late, however, for 
the road was made, and king and courtiers had already sancti- 
fied it.” 

With this the doctor led the way through the town, a quaint 
looking place to be sure, with an intense middle-age air and color 
about it, full, both on the right and the left, of dark vaults and 
mysterious archways, some of these last opening unexpectedly on 
green, sunny vistas, refreshing to behold. Miss Lucy wondered 
at the number of massy stone bridges thrown overhead across 
the street from house to house ; and which, her cicerone 
exjdained, were meant as a safe-guard against a frequent 

11 * 


250 


Doctor Antonio. 


unpleasant visitor — the earthquake. Another thing that pu:6 
ried the young English lady, was to see, now and then, on th« 
outer door-steps, plates full of oranges, lemons, and vegetables, 
without any one to watch them. She was surprised to hear that 
they were there for sale ; anybody who wanted such or such at 
article, taking it sans ceremaaie out of the plate, and leaving 
instead the price, one or two sous. 

This novel method of trading highly amused Sir John, who 
remarked, “ That though ingenuous and economical, it was not 
of a kind to thrive much in many places.” 

Our trio now came to a street wider than the rest, where a 
,^reat many persons of all classes, gentlemen, priests, laborers, 
mechanics, were either assembled in groups, or loitering 
about under arcades extending on both sides. “ This is the 
Pantanoy^^ said Doctor Antonio ; “the Exchange and the 
Regent street combined, of the good folks of Taggia. Here 
business is transacted, and here beaux and magnates exhibit 
their finery and importance to the world. That tall man in 
uniform is the quarter-master of the carbineers, one of the 
powers that be. If we stay here a few minutes longer, we shall 
see him set off to make an official report as to how Doctor 
Antonio of Bordighera was seen to traverse the Pantano at five 
minutes past four in the afternoon, in the company of a foreign 
lady and gentleman ; an important event, of which my friend, 
the Commandant of San Remo, will be informed before sunset.” 

“ Are you in earnest ?” cried Lucy. “ I can scarcely believe 
that any one would trouble himself about such trifles.” 

“ Trifles, indeed I” repeated Antonio, with the utmost gravity; 
“might not Sir John be a French general in disguise (he looks 
very like one, I am sure), come t3 revolutionize his Sardinian 
majesty's town of Taggia ? Our police are forever ready and 
willing to save the country from such risks.” 

Every hat was raised as our friends passed by, and many ■ 


351 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 

■od and smile, and waving of hands, addressed in particular tc 
the doctor, gave evidence of his treading on familiar ground. 
He beckoned to a tall, thin, fair-haired young man (“ the maker 
of your easy-chair. Miss Davenne,”) who came forward, and 
after saluting the company, shook hands with Antonio — an act 
of familiarity that called up on Sir John^s countenance only half 
of his wonted grimace, for, making a strenuous effort, the baro- 
net so far overcame himself as to suppress the other half. This 
unpleasant impression was, however, soon obliterated by the 
quiet and deferential manner with which the young cabinet-maker 
introduced his visitors into his workshop, a large room, with bare 
walls, and where they found a lad modelling a head in plaster. 

“That youth,” said the doctor, “has a decided talent for 
sculpture ; untaught, he has already modelled heads, and even 
full-length figures. He is about to go to Rome, where a rich 
and generous family of this country has volunteered to pay all 
his expenses while he studies there ; and I am greatly mistaken 
if the name of Salvatore Revelli does not become, in a few years, 
one honored in the Republic of Arts.* This tall fellow, too,” 
continued Antonio, playfully pointing to the cabinet-maker, “ but 
for his obstinacy in sticking to the Pantamo, might have earned 
fame and money. Now, out with your fine things, sir, if you 
please.” 

The number of fin® things was not large — where was the uSe 
of adding to them when what was there already found no pur- 
chasers? — nevertheless, there was more than enough to prove 
the uncommon skill and taste of the workman. There were, 
indeed, only a few paper-knives and portfolios, richly ornamented 
with most delicate and fanciful carvings, or diminutive figures, 

* Antonio prophesied right. ReveUl placed himself at once among the most promislAg 
foung sculptors of the day by his first work exhibited in Genoa in 1849 ; a bas-relief, 
representing an episode in the life of Columbus, and intended for the monuEi^t the 
Genoese are erecting to their great countryman. 


252 


Doctor Antonio. 


and three tables of most exquisite workmanship. On one of 
these was delineated a series of figures representing the different 
costumes of the people of the Riviera, so admirably done that 
Lucy exclaimed — “ This is not the work of a cabinet-maker, it is 
^at of an artist, who not only draws beautifully, but is als<» ' 
first-rate colorist.” 

“ My friend,” said Antonio, “ has all the merit of choice and 
arrangement, but there are no colors in these figures except those 
bestowed by nature on the different bits of wood of which they 
are composed.” 

Lucy could scarcely believe this, and Sir John needed the 
joint testimony of eyes and glasses before he could admit the fact. 
He at once offered to purchase all that had been shown them, 
expressing his regret to the doctor that the cabinet-maker^s stock 
was not larger. After a cordial exchange of good wishes and 
thanks, Antonio and his friends took their leave, and winding 
their way through some more streets, all verdure and sunshine 
in the balconies and terraces above, all shade and gloom below, 
they arrived at a bridge which joined the two banks of the little 
valley. 

On a lofty ridge opposite rose Castellaro, shimmering in golden 
light. “ How bright and beautiful I” said Lucy ; “ that is the 
gayest village in the world ; one might fancy that Castellaro 
feels the happiness of existence.” 

“ Or,” pursued Antonio, “ that in a transport of joy it is about 
to fling itself into the arms of the valley.” 

“ Just so,” laughed the baronet ; “ they must have stout 
hearts who live in those foremost houses ; the mere idea makes 
roe giddy.” 

About the middle of the bridge they came to a stone pillar, on 
which was a Madonna and a Latin inscription. “ Here is 
another memorial of an earthquake,” said Antonio, pointing to 
the inscription. 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


953 


** It is here stated, that in the month of June, 1831, a dread 
fell visitation destroyed two arches of the bridge, the third and 
this one on which we are now standing. Two children, brother 
and sister, who were crossing at the very instant of the shock, 
were thrown down with this, the eleventh arch, and, wonderful 
to relate, sustained no injury ; in acknowledgment of which 
miraculous escape the grateful father erected this pillar, with an 
inscription commemorative of the fact.” 

At the foot of a narrow steep path, a little past the bridge, 
the party found two mules and two men waiting for them. The 
doctor preferred walking, he said. Sir John, once in the saddle, 
opened his umbrella and took the lead, closely followed by Lucy, 
a man at the head of each mule. “ I never saw such a detesta- 
ble break-neck road,” cried out the baronet, after a short time ; 

certainly the parish does not rain itself by keeping the roads in 
order.” 

“ It will improve as soon as we pass into the parish of Cas- 
tellaro,” said Doctor Antonio. “ Castellaro has more than onc« 
pressed on Taggia the necessity of the latter having its part of 
the road repaired. You will never guess the answer always 
given : — It is not Taggia that wants to go to Castellaro, but 
Castellaro that wants to come to Taggia ; so let Castellaro 
repair the road if it chooses, at its own expense. Such are the 
notions of political economy entertained hereabouts.” 

The elastic air of the mountain, strongly impregnated with the 
racy perfume of the rosemary and thyme growing plentifully 
bout, began to act as a gentle stimulant on our travellers, 
whose spirits rose with every step. Sir John waxed so poetical, 
as to liken the enormous clusters of yellow furze scattered over 
the hill, to smiles irradiating a rugged old face. Lucy, with 
girlish buoyancy, fell to pelting Antonio with every flower sup- 
plied by the victim, who 3ried out treason, and, seemingly in 
mortal feaf. would fall back, shriek, and hide behind rocks and 


164 


Doctor Antonio 


trees, and play such childish tricks, as we, his historiographerfc 
cannot take upon ourselves to relate. Lucy’s merry peals of 
laughter at Antonio’s odd ways, and at the grave face with 
which he warned her against peeping behind, and thus spoiling 
her pleasure, were most cheering to listen to. He presently 
came out of one of his hiding-places shouting and waving a huge 
bunch of flowers, so inconceivably gay, that they could only be 
met with, he declared, on the way to the gayest village in the 
world. From the centre of each of the large white blossoms 
he held in his hand, there sprung up a long elegant aigrette of 
deep lilac stamens. The ensemble, so rich and delicate, had a 
certain resemblance to the tail of a white peacock. “ What can 
it be ?” said Lucy. “It is the capparis spinosa,^^ answered 
Antonio, “and these flowers you admire so much are but capers 
in full blossom, best known for culinary purposes.” This piece 
of information did not cool Miss Davenne’s admiration, who said 
she liked caper-sauce, and, seeing Antonio stick some of the 
flowers in his famous comical hat, wished to have some in her 
own, which looked pretty indeed. Sir John, laughingly, allowed 
himself to be adorned in the same way — the two guides had 
likewise their share, and thus caparisoned, the little troop 
traversed the village of €astellaro, rather stared at, but received 
with the same tokens of respect and sympathy which had accom- 
panied them throughout the day. Now and then some villager 
would step up to the doctor with a request that he would go to 
visit some sick person, which, the case not being urgent, was put 
off with a good-humored smile for the morrow. 

A broad, smooth road, in high order, what Sir John called a 
road fit for Christians, opened from the village northwards, and 
stretching over the side of the steep mountain in capricious zig- 
zags, now concealed, now gave to view the front of the sanctuary, 
sihaded by two oaks of enormous dimensions. “ The Castellim 
who made t/’is road ‘ in the sweat of their brows,’ ” said Anto 


l^rogress to the Sanctuary. 


255 


nio, “ point it out with pride, and well they may. They tell you 
with infinite complacency how every one of the pebbles with 
which it is paved was brought from the sea-shore, those who had 
mules using them for that purpose, those who had none bringing 
up loads on their own backs ; how every one, gentleman and 
peasant, young and old, women and boys, worked day and night, 
with no other inducement than the love of the Madonna. The 
Madonna of Lampedusa is Uieir creed, their occupation, their 
pride, their Carrocdo^ their fixed idea.” 

“ A strange infatuation,” remarked Lucy ; “1 should like to 
hear the legend, for, of course, there is some tradition extant 
about it.” 

“ All that relates to the miraculous image,” answered Antonio, 
“ and the date and mode of its translation to Castellaro, is given 
at full length in two inscriptions, one in Latin, the other in bad 
Italian verses, which are to be seen in the interior of the little 
chapel of the sanctuary. Andrea Anfosso, a native of Castellaro, 
being the captain of a privateer, was one day attacked and 
defeated by the Turks, and carried to the Isle of Lampedusa. 
Here he succeeded in making his escape and hiding himself, until 
the Turkish vessel which had captured him left the island. 
Anfosso, being a man of expedients, set about btiilding a boat, 
and finding himself in a great dilemma what to do for a sail, ven- 
tured on the bold and original step of taking from the altar of 
some church or chapel of the island a picture of the Madonna to 
serve as one ; and so well did it answer his purpose, that he 
made an unusually prospe' 3us voyage back to his native shores, 
and in a fit of generosity ffered his holy sail to the worship of 
bis fellow-townsmen. Th» wonderful of the affair d t)es not stop 
Here A place was chos# i by universal acclamation, two gun- 
ishots in advance of the pr -sent sanctuary, and a chapel erected, 
m which the gift was dep vqted with all due honor. But the 
Madonna, as it would seem uad an insurmountable objection to 


£56 


Doctor Antonio. 


the spot selected, for, every morning that God made, the pictnre 
was found at the exact place where the actual church now stands. 
Seutihels were posted at the door of the chapel, the entire village 
remained on foot for nights, mounting guard at the entrance — no 
precaution, however, availed. In spite of the strictest watch, the 
picture, now undeniably a miraculous one, found means to make 
its way to the spot it preferred. At length the Castellini came 
to understand that it was the Madonna’s express will, that her 
head-quarters should be shifted to where her resemblance betook 
itself every night ; and though it had pleased her to make choice 
of the most abrupt and the steepest spot on the whole mountain, 
just where it was requisite raise arches in order to lay a sure 
foundation for her sanctuary, the Castellini set themselves con 
amore to the task so cleaidy revealed to them, and this widely 
renowned chapel was completed. This took place in 1619. In 
the course of time some rooms were annexed for the accommoda- 
tion of visitors and pilgrims, and a terrace built, and many other 
additions and embellishments are even now in contemplation, arid 
no doubt will be accomplished some day ; for, although the Cas- 
tellini have oui a small purse, theirs is the grand lever which 
can remove all impediments — the faith that brought about the 
Crusades.” 

As Antonio ceased speaking, John and Miss Hutchins, twc 
personages of whom we have been lately strangely forgetful, 
were at Lucy’s stirrup, who playfully asked the doctor if the 
taboo were raised, and she might now look behind her. “ As 
if you had not been doing so for the last hour,” said Antonio, 
ihaking his head at her. Lucy turned sharply round, and 
embraced at one glance the wonderfully varied scene before her 

To the north, a long, long vista of deep, dark, frowning gorges, 
closed in the distance by a gigantic screen of snow-clad Alps — 
the glorious expanse of the Mediterranean to the south — east and 
wevst, range upon range of gently undulating hills, softly inclining 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


267 


towards the sea — in the plain below, the fresh, cozy valley of 
Taggia, with its sparkling track of waters and rich belt of gar- 
dens, looking like a perfect mosaic of every gradation of green, 
checkered with winding silver arabesques. Ever and anon a 
tardy pomegranate in full blossom spread out its oriflamme 
of tulip-shaped, dazzling red flowers. From the rising ground 
opposite, frowned mediaeval Taggia, like a discontented guest at 
a splendid banquet. A little farther off, westwards, the eye took 
in the Campanile of the Dominican church, emerging from a 
group of cypresses ; and further still, on the extreme verge of 
the western cliff, the sanctuary of our lady of the Ghiardia showed 
its white silhouette against dark blue sky. 

A half-fretful, half-plaintive, “ Now, Lucy, my dear, if you 
would only put off your enthusiasm till after dinner,” from Sir 
John, interrupted Miss Davenne’s silent but delighted survey^ 
and brought her at once to her father’s side. They sat down to 
a succulent dinner, of which Sir John partook with an alacrity 
and zest highly complimentary to the hygienic qualities of the 
mountain air. The repast being over, Lucy proposed that they 
should take coffee on the terrace, which being agreed to by her 
father, they immediately went thither, and Sir John, after sipping 
his Mocha, and paying an ample tribute of admiration to the 
loveliness of the view, took the Times from his pocket, and 
plunged into its columns. Lucy and Antonio, thus left to them- 
selves, sat watching in silent wonder, the glories of the evening 
hour. 

The sky was bright and limpid as polished steel, save where 
three lovely cloudlets, like long scarfs of orange gauze, hovered 
in the west. The sun, half hidden behind the brow of the 
western mountain range, shot, through the b *eaks of the lower 
hills in front, some of its rays fti fiery columns aslant the valley. 
As the dazzling orb sunk slowly, the zone of shade on the 
mountain opposite rose with corresponding progress, and like a 


258 


Doctor Antonio. 


tide of dark waters^ chasing before it the broad sheets of light, 
narrowed them by degrees to a purple line, which lingered for a 
while on the topmost ridges, the last farewell then vanished with 
a quiver. Now the foremost range of the chain resumes at once 
the rigidity of its outlines, while those in the background, behind 
which the sun has gone down float in a transparent mist of 
lapis-lazuli and pink. The sky in the west is a glorious furnace, 
the warm reflections from which befleck with crimson the distant 
snow of the Alps, and light up the horizon of the sea. Another 
moment the reddish glare pales and gives way, the shadows 
thicken in the valley beneath, and the gorges to the north darken 
and darken apace. The fiery coruscations h the west have 
softened into subdued rosy tints, and these m their turn, by a 
harmoniously graduated scale, fade into a greenish mother-of- 
pearl transparency, which passes from grey to azure, until west 
and east merge into a uniform deep blue, spangled here and 
there with a trembling star. 

And our beautiful clouds ?” said Lucy. 

“ €rone !” replied Antonio, sadly ; “ emblem of many a bright 
hope vanishing even as you watch them.” 

** But they will come again to-morrow,” said Lucy, naively, 
and as in so saying she bent her head a little towards Antonio, 
the evening breeze carried some of her golden curls over his lips, 
as if offering them to his kiss. 

“ Who can tell,” said he, “ but that black clouds pregnant 
with thunder will envelope those summits to-morrow ?” 

The wonderful evolutions of light and shade which out of 
respect for our reader’s patience, we have unceremoniously 
despatched in a few lines, had in reality occupied a full hour, 
the first quarter of which had been consecrated by Sir John to 
his newspaper, the second to find a commodious posture, and 
the last half to a glorious doze. This was the reason why the 
young lady and gentleman spoke in whispers, and speaking 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 259 

in whispers chanced now ani then to lean towards each 
other. 

The impressive stillness of the evening was suddenly broken 
by the bells of the six churches of Castellaro ringing the Ave 
Maria, echoed in quick succession by those of the far more 
numerous churches of Taggia, and of the far away Capuchin 
and Dominican convents. It was the sweetest and most melan- 
choly concert imaginable. Sir John changed his position, but 
did not wake ; and Antonio began reciting, almost in Lucy^s 
ear, the so often quoted, yet most excellent to quote, incom- 
parable lines of Dante : 

** Er» glA Tors che volg* 11 dlsio 
A’ jiaviganti, e’ntene’.'isc® 11 oaor* 

Lo di c’han detto i dole! amici ; a Dio ; 

E che lo nuovo peregrin d'amore 
Punge. se ode squilla di lontano 
Che paja il giorno planger che si muore.” 

TRANSLATION. 

“ Now was the hour that wakens fond desire 
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart. 

Who in the morning have bid sweet friends farewell ; 

And pilgrim newly on his road with love 
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far 
lliat seems to mourn for the expiring day.” — C ast. 

never entirely felt till now,” said Lucy, with glistening 
eyes, ** the full pathos of those beautiful verses. The regret of 
the distant fatherland which informs them strikes home to the 
heart. They must have been written in such an hour as this.” 

“ And by an exile,” added Antonio. “ Probably the eyes of 
the great Ghibbeline were gazing on a chain of mountains such 
as that rising before us, which stood between him and ‘ II l?oll4 
iwile oW ei dormi agTiello. Nimico o) Iwpi che gli danno guerra 


* . . . . The fair sheep fold, where a sleeping lamb 

The wolves set on, and fain had worried — Oaet. 


260 


Doctor Antonio. 


“But while we are talking,” he went on, “night has dropped 
her veil in earnest, and the fire-flies begin to light their tiny lan- 
terns — a signal that it is time for me to go home.” 

“Home I” repeated Lucy, surprised; “you are surely not 
going back to Bordighera to-night ?” 

“ Oh no,” said Antonio ; “ you do not suppose I am such a 
fickle cavalier. Do you see that mass of white there to the left 
of Taggia, with lights in it ?” 

“ I remarked that house before,” returned Lucy ; “ it looks 
mysterious.” 

“ That is what I call my home when I come to Taggia.” 

“ It is rather far off,” said Lucy. “ Can you not stay here ?” 

“ There is no room.” 

“ Have you no friends at Castellaro 

“ None half so dear as the one who expects me at Taggia.” 

' You are, then, much attached to that friend ?” 

“ I love and revere her with ail my heart,” was the answer. 

Lucy was silent. 

“ You recollect,” Antonio went on, “ my telling you once, that 
of all my fellow creatures the one who ranked highest in my eyes 
was one of your sex. I am now going to that lady. Good-bye 
till to-morrow, and pleasant dreams. Bless me, how cold your 
hands are 1 You had better go into the house. Yet the air is 
so soft and mild. Do go in immediately and have a cup of hot 
tea, pray do. You will not ? Well, good-bye, I must not stay 
longer.” 

Notwithstanding that Sir John, now thoroughly awake, re- 
peatedly urged her to go in, Lucy lingered on the terrace till she 
saw a tall, dark figure cross the bridge beneath, amid a shower 
of fire-flies, — the valley by this time looked like a sea of dancing 
stars. Then, and then only, she rose and joined her father, who 
had himself gone in to order tea. 

Two hours later, the same tall figure which had crossed the 


Progress to the Sanctuary. 


261 


bridge was at one of the casements of the mysterious house, 
standing out in bold relief against the light within. Now, had 
you whispered in the ear of that figure, as it stood at the window 
in silent contemplation, “ There is sleeplessness somewhere in the 
neighborhood on your account,” what a start it would have 
given. So true is it, that even the most thoughtful and tender 
of men cannot think of everything that the sensitiveness of a 
woman will suggest to plague herself with. 

The figure at last withdraws, shuts the window with a sigh, 
and an earnest God bless her 1” — a wish in which we join with 
ail oar heart 


262 


Doctor Antooio. 


Chapter XVI. 

N e^\ Characters and Incidents 

In the place of honor, viz., at the foot of the balustrade whitU 
separates the main altar from the body of the neat little church 
of the sanctuary, we find, at eight o’clock next morning, Spe- 
ranza and Battista on their knees, most devoutly hearing the 
mass performing on their behalf. The altar, on which the mira- 
culous image stands, but hidden from profane view by a curtain, 
is richly ornamented, and the walls around it, as well as those of 
the two minor chapels, to the right and left of the nave, are 
covered with ex-votos, most of them consisting of silver hearts, 
occasionally interspersed by a silver leg or arm, with even s 
silver baby swaddled according to inviolable Italian fashion, 
There are also many primitive little pictures, nine out of ten of 
which are intended to represent vessels sinking in hoirid seas, 
with preternatural waves, and the Madonna seated on a cloud, 
looking placidly on. 

Mass being over, the balustrade is flung open by the old 
sacristan, who beckons forward Speranza and her betrothed. 
This is the signal for the congregation, composed chiefly of 
women, to rush towards the altar. The four tapers in front are 
lighted, and then the curtain slowly rises amid a jingling of little 
bells, and there appears a picture of small dimensions — something 
less than a yard high, and about two feet in breads h — containing 


New Characters and Incidents. 268 


two figures, our Lady and the Divine Infant, with round <^ach 
head a golden glory, and a St. Catherine by their side. A gene- 
ral murmur of satisfaction is sighed forth by the worshippers, 
whose eyes brighten and glisten as they are raised in contempla- 
tion. The sacristan looks radiant. Speranza on her knees, 
crimson with blushes, makes her offering, a huge silver heart ; 
Battista slily and awkwardly tenders his, a picture representing 
a carriage just upsetting, with the Madonna, as usual, on a 
cloud. A short prayer from the priest, a short response from 
the congregation, and then the priest retires. The sacristan, 
while slowly extinguishing the tapers, carries on a little ex-official 
conversation with some of the bystanders, in the course of which 
he remarks that it is wonderful to see how much more beautiful 
the picture grows every day ; there is a jingling once more, the 
curtain falls, and the devout drop away one by one. 

“ How can these people,” said Lucy to the doctor, as they 
descended the stairs of a small gallery over the door of the 
chapel, from which they had witnessed the whole ceremony j 
“ how can these people believe that so small a picture could have 
served as a sail ?” 

“ Your observation, my dear Miss Davenne, smacks horribly 
of the heretic,” returned the doctor, gravely ; “ had the picture 
been of a proper size, where would have been the miracle ?” 

And leading the way to the left of the chapel, through a vault 
supporting the terrace, where they had sat the previous evening, 
watching the sunset, Antonio added, “ Now, if you will trust 
yourself to my guidance, I will take you where an agreeable sur- 
prise awaits you.” 

“ As you please,” said Lucy. 

This cold way of receiving a proposal sportively made, so dif* 
ferent from her habitual, rather buoyant manner, on similar oeca 
sions, caused Antonio to look first in her face, then say, “ I few 
you did not sleep well last night.” 


264 


Doctor Antonio. 


On the contrary,” was the abrupt reply, “ I never slept bet- 
ter in my life.” (Oh I Miss Davenne, Miss Davenne, were it not 
for that crimson blush staining and burning your cheek, how 
properly we should scold you for telling such a fib in the very 
teeth of the Madonna I) Antonio looked at her again, but said 
::aothing, did not even offer her his arm ; indeed, she kept suffi- 
ciently far from him to justify his thinking, that just then she did 
not wish for his support. And thus they walked on in silence, 
till, after a sharp turn round a rock, they came to a small table- 
land, covered with a thick jungle of wild roses. Lucy, even in 
her present mood, could not help brightening up at the sight 
“ This is where the original chapel stood,” said Antonio ; “ you 
can perceive the remains of the old walls among the bushes ; 
keep back a little, or you will never get free from the bram- 
bles,” he added, as he himself plunged into the very thick of 
them, and began cutting away right and left ; then carefully 
stripping off the thorns, he made a splendid bouquet, and handed 
it, without speaking, to Lucy, who received it also without 
speaking. 

“ Is that a Capuchin ?” she asked, at last, pointing to a man 
dressed in a long loose gown, with a rope round his waist, 
coming along the road at a short distance from them. 

“ That is the Sacristan who played so conspicuous a part in 
the chapel this morning. He has laid aside his robes and put on 
his hermit’s gown, for you must know he is the Hermit of Lam- 
pedusa, and goes by no other name. He is one of the fixtures 
of tne chapel, and guards it day and night. The Madonna and 
he are in fact one.” 

Lucy and the doctor on their way back to the sanctuary came 
upon the Hermit (he probably had been waiting for them), who 
made a low obeisance to the lady, and exchanged some words 
with the gentleman. 

“ This man,” said Antonio, in Italian, tapping the Hermit 


New Characters and Incidents. 


good-naturedly on the shoulder, “ has the Madonna in his sleeve ; 
deny it if you dare.” The Hermit, evidently much pleased at 
this somewhat profane compliment, acknowledged his sense of 
it with a little toss of the head, and a deprecatory motion of both 
hands, as much as to say, “ Pray, spare my modesty,” and passed 
on. Lucy had eyed him with some curiosity during this halt. 
He was a thin, dry, ruddy complexioned man, about sixty, 
with a pair of small grey eyes, as restless and piercing as those 
of a ferret, — tell-tale witnesses of his being of a choleric dispo- 
lition. 

“That poor old fellow,” said Antonio, “carries* on a little 
trade in common prints of the Madonna, and he told me he was 
going to call on you presently to show you his collection. He 
will expect you to make some purchases, which you can bestow 
on Speranza and Battista, who will be delighted to accept of 
them. This sort of tribute, which^ he levies on all visitors to the 
shrine, with some other trifling perquisites, constitute the HermiPs 
income, for he has no salary. He is an original worth study- 
ing ; his fanaticism in all that concerns the Madonna is most 
^erocious. Compared to him, Torquemada was a pattern of 
toleration.” 

They found Battista and Speranza on the terrace. Thus taken 
by surprise, poor Battista, who had not yet conquered his awe 
of Lucy, colored prodigiously, and tried to conceal himself 
behind Speranza — a manoeuvre perceived by every one, but of 
which, out of compassion to the poor young man, no one took 
notice Antonio went to fetch a table for Miss Havenne, and 
she sat down to sketch. As good as his word, the Hermit 
shortly after made his appearance, bringing with him a large 
bundle of prints, admired and praised by all present, and of 
which Lucy, as just agreed, became the purchaser. 

Have you plenty of visitors ?” asked Antonio. 

Samti-chwdi T should think so,” cried the irascible old man, 

12 


266 


Doctor Antonio. 


whose abrupt manner of speaking and habitual ierk of the head 
caused him to seem in a permanent passion ; “I should think so, 
indeed. It is the same all the year round. People come from 
Turin, from Genoa, from Nice, from all the parts of the world. 
And those who cannot come, the Madonna harkens to just as 
well as if they pray to her ; it is faith which saves. Why, only 
last week, the marquis of Papparilla, one of the greatest nobles 
of Genoa, fell ill ; the physicians had given him up. But his 
mother, a really holy woman, do you know what she does I — 
gives up the physicians as they had given up her son, and sits 
down and writes a letter to the curd, begging him to have a 
Triduo at the shrine. And what happens ? — thz very first da/y 
of the Triduo the marquis was out of danger.” 

“ And what is a Triduo ?” asked Lucy. 

“ A Triduo I” (with the characteristic toss of the head more 
marked than ever), “ Santi-chiodi ! three days of prayer, and tho 
benediction with the holy sacrament, the bells of the parish ring- 
ing all the while. You can have a Triduo for seven francs and 
twelve sous ; three francs for the parish, three for the Madonna, 
and four-and-twenty sous for the ringing of the bells ; eight sous 
come to me. If you pay three francs twelve sous more, you may 
have a mass performed each of the three days. Each mass 
twenty sous, and four additional sous for the walk from Oas- 
tellaro hither. Why, it is a mere nothing.” 

Certainly,” said Antonio, “ it is not dear. Pray, is the sane* 
tuary of the Madonna ddla Guardia^^ — ^pointing to it in the 
distance — “ at all like this ?” 

“ Like this 1” exclaimed the old man, reddening, and making a 
grimace of supreme contempt. “ Sanctuaries like this, my good 
gentleman,” he continued, with great severity of tone, “ are rare, 
though you hunt tlirough all Christendom for them ; a sanctuary 
like this, my good gentleman, is not to be found elsewhere in aD 
Christendom — but go into the vestry, I beg, and read the papal 


New Characters and Incidents. 26'J 

brief hanging there ; it will teach you that this ea.actuary of 
Lampedusa is equal to Rome — yes, sir, the same iu point of 
privileges and indulgences, whether during life or in articulc 
mortis. All that can he got at Rome, where his holiness the 
pope dwells, can all be got here without any exception. When 
the shrine of our lady of the Guardia can say so much for itself,^ 
he concluded, with a look of offended dignity, “ then, and then 
only, shall I place it on a footing with this.” 

“ Still,” persisted Antonio, with much gravity, “ though I am 
far from wishing to make comparisons, which are always odious 
things, still I have it from competent authority, that at the inter- 
cession of that Madonna of the Guardia^ some miraculous cures 
have lately taken place.” 

“ May be so,” said the hermit, with cool condescension. “ Far 
be it from me to disparage the Madonna della Guardia ; may be 
that she has cured some poor old gouty man or rheumatic old 
woman. But has she ever restored speech and hearing to those 
born deaf and dumb, cured paralytics bedridden for twenty-five 
years, and made rain to fall at a day’s notice ?” 

“ You have, then, yourself witnessed real miracles ?” iiiquired 
Antonio. 

“ Santi-chiodi ! have I witnessed miracles ? I hope I have,” 
burst out the old man eagerly. “ Do you rememner the spring 
of 1835 ? No, you don’t, for you were not yet come to these 
parts. Not a drop of rain, I give you my solemn word, had 
fallen for three whole months, and the crop of olives that pro- 
mised so w^ell that year, was fast going to destruction. There 
was nothing but lamentation throughout the Riviera. Triduos 
had been performed ; the sacrament had been exhibited for 
weeks in every parish round ; Novenas had been going on at the 
Madonna ddld Guardia (with a slight sneer), t"ie relics of San 
Benedetto had been shown; the miraculous crucifix in the oratory 
of San Sebastian^ at Taggia, had been earned in processi^m.— 


*268 


Doctor Antonio. 


still not a drop of rain. All hands were now raised in supplica 
tion to Castellaro. ‘ What are the Castellini waiting f^r V was 
asked on every side. ‘They who possess such a miraculous 
image, why do they not bring it forth ? Do they mean to delay 
till every hope of saving the olives is lost ?’ Well, sir, what does 
our cure do ? He writes a beautiful letter to the bishop of Ven- 
timiglia, which made every one weep who read or heard it ; now 
or never, he writes, is the time for having the Madonna of Lam- 
pedusa carried to the parish church, and shown to the faithful. 
The bishop, like a holy man as he is, sends back a beautiful let- 
ter in answer to the curd^s, saying, that the time in fact was 
come to give the Madonna of Lampedusa a fair trial. On the 
hrst of May, then, we set off in procession — such a crowd as you 
can have no conception of ; — there were all the confraternities 
from Taggia, from Riva, from Pompejana, from Boscomara^ 
indeed, where did they not come from 1 — so we set off, the cure 
in his white surplice heading the procession, the confraternities 
following behind with big tapers in their hands — real wax tapers 
— and we carry the blessed picture under a baldaquin, just as if 
it had been the sacrament — we carry it, I say, to the parish 
church. Well, what do you think was the consequence? On 
the evening of that same day, — mind, of that same day, — crumble, 
rumble, rumble, flash, flash, flash, a terrific thunderstorm came 
on, and then down poured rain, rain, rain, in bucketsful, as 
though it had never rained before. To finish my story, our 
picture remained in the parish church for fifteen days, and for 
fifteen days the rain never ceased pouring in torrents ; till, at 
last, fearing there might be a second deluge, we brought the 
Madonna back in a hurry, and lo I as soon as we had done that, 
there was an end of rain, and the sun shone out splendidly, and 
we had a plentiful harvest. Do you call this a miracle or not 
asked the hermit looking round on his audience with beaming 
eyes. 


New Characterb and Incidents. 


269 


Sp^ranza and Battista, who had listened open-mouthed to the 
story, in a sort of trance of ecstacy, immediately sent forth a 
volley of inarticulate sounds, meant to express enthusiastic 
acquiescence and wonder. 

“ But this is not all,” resumed the Hermit, after a silence of a 
minute or two, the better to enjoy the renewed surprise of his 
listeners. “ One evening, while the picture was in the parish 
church, another attendant and I had just replaced the fourteen 
big wax-tapers that burned before it all day, by the fourteen 
oil lamps, which, for the sake of economy, were lighted at 
night, and we were going away, when all of a sudden the lamps 
began to dance up and down. ‘ Do you see that V said I to 
the other man. ‘ Yes,^ answered he, all of a tremble ; the 
word was scarcely spoken, when up and down went the lamps 
again.” 

“ Did the picture also dance up and down ?” asked Antonio, 
with the most perfect composure. 

“ Not the least,” answered the Hermit, earnestly ; “the pic- 
ture did not move in the least. ‘ The Madonna gives us a sign/ 
says I to my comrade, ‘there is something wrong here.^ And 
so we began rummaging about, poking under the benches, look- 
ing into the confessionals, and searching every hole and corner. 
For my part, to tell you the truth, I thought that there might 
be thieves in the church, for you must know we have ten beauti- 
ful silver lamps there. We looked, and looked, without finding 
anything, and we had made up our minds to go away, when all at 
once the lamps began dancing more violently than ever. We set 
to work to search all over again, and guess what we found at 
last ? — (a tantalizing stop ; Speranza and Battista’s eyes were 
ready to start out of their heads with thrilling expectation) — 
We found a little boy of six years old, quietly sleeping under the 
shelter of one of the minor altars. No v fancy, if the poor child 
had awakened ir. the dead of the night there all alone, he would 


270 


Doctor Antonio. 


certainly have died of fright. This is what the Midonna woiiM 
not permit — so she gave us a sign, and through her holy inter- 
ference, the innocent little creature was saved from certain 
death.” 

This conclusion not being contradicted by anybody, while it 
was most emphatically agreed to by Speranza and Battista, who 
knows how many more miracles the old man would have nar- 
rated, had it not been for Antonio, who, announcing that he 
must go to visit some patients, both at Castellaro and Taggia, 
playfully drew the Hermit’s arm under his own, and carried him 
off, on the plea of having some important communication to 
make respecting our Lady of the Ckiardia. Lucy recommenced 
drawing, Battista crept farther and farther away, then vanished 
altogether ; and Speranza, seating herself by the side of her 
young benefactress, began to work at some of her wedding 
garments. We ought to have said before, that, among the 
contrivances provided by Doctor Antonio’s foresight for the 
convenience of his fellow-travellers, there figured a wide awning, 
which had been by his orders put up over the terrace that 
morning, and it is under its shade we leave Miss Davenne for a 
while. 

Among the numerous loungers who were the constant orna- 
ment of the Boulevard de Gaud of Taggia, and consequently 
one of those who marked the progress of our little party through 
the Fantano, was Signor Orlando Pistacchini, manager and 
chief actor of the dramatic company bearing his euphonious 
name, and forming the delight of the respectable public of 
Taggia. When we make this last affirmation, we avail ourselves 
of a rather hyperbolical phrase, copied literally from the manu- 
script bills placarded at the four corners of the Pantano. If wo 
were to state facts in their genuine historical nakedness, we 
ought to say, that as nobody went to the theatre, so the company 
in question formed the delight or horror of nobody ; and we are 


New Characters and Incidents. 


271 


Also free to declare tliat tlie honorable corps dramatique were 
Iona fide starving. A very unpleasant predicament, and one 
which caused the unlucky manager, who was fasting from all 
food, to lean rather dejectedly against a stone pillar, ruminat* 
ing as to how or where he was likely to find a dinner. Roused 
from his sad reflections by the advent of the strangers, Orlanda 
Pistacchini languidly raised his hat, speculated for one moment 
on what they might have had for breakfast, and then relapsed 
into his painful meditations. But when fame with her hun- 
dred trumpets, or to speak less poetically, but more truly, 
when a tall, fair-haired cabinet-maker spread far and wide the 
intelligence that Doctor Antonio’s two companions were none 
other than the Milordo Inglese of Bordighera and his daughter, 
on their way to Lampedusa, where they were to stay a couple 
of days — when the manager, we say, heard this, a sudden flash 
of light revealed to him an endless succession of breakfasts and 
dinners ; he ran home at full speed, sat down at his table, and 
wrote as follows : 

■“Most Illustrious Milordo 

“ When a friend and protector of the fine arts of your rank and 
generosity, comes within the reach of such humble but sincere votaries 
and worshippers of Melpomene and Thalia as we profess to be, we should 
be unworthy indeed of that name of artists in which we pride ourselves, 
did we not reverently tender to the noble representative of Art and 
Great Britain such public testimony of respectful sympathy and defer- 
ence as in our power lies. To that effect the Pistacchini Dramatic Com- 
pany are making preparations for an extra performance on the evejjng 
of to-morrow, the 22d June, to consist of the fifth act of the celebratod 
tetigedy, 

ARISTODEMO, 

FOLLOWED BY THE HIGHLY ENTERTAINING COMEDY 

L’AJO NELL’ IMBARAZZO, 

{The Tutor in a Puzzle,) 


272 


Doctor Antonio. 


m which Orlando Pistacchini will have the honor to appear 4.S Aristodemo 
and I’Aji?. Sucn is tne entertainment for which we solicit the patronage 
of the English Mascenas, and at which we humbly crave the favor of hifi 
presence, and that of his unparalleled daughter. All Taggia will flock 
to the theatre to do honor to such distinguished guests. We hope you 
will come. Alas ! the muse is too often unheeded now-a-days, and if 
noble and generous hands are not raised in her support, what is to become 
of her? We therefore entreat you most humbly to come. This is the. 
•rdent prayer of your lordship’s most humble and obedient servant, 

“ Orlando Pistacchini, 

'"''Manager and Chief Actor. 

“N B. — No pains or expense will be spared to give the performance 
the splendor befitting so glorious an occasion. The house will be lighted 
a giorno, and a flight of pigeons will take place between the tragedy and 
comedy. We trust to your noble heart too entirely to apprehend the dia 
appointment of a refusal.” 

Orlando made two copies of this sort of last lay of a manager 
on the brink of destruction ; the second, with slight variations, 
being intended for Miss Davenne, and then went to bed, “ per- 
chance to sleep.” The next morning saw him and his spouse, 
Signora Rosalinda (a little round body, choking with fat, and 
something asthmatic), both dressed in their best attire, blowing 
and panting in the hot sun, on the road to Lampedusa. 

Sir J ohn Davenne, much about the same time, after a comfort- 
able breakfast, had taken a fancy to go and enjoy his morning’s 
paper in the shade of one of the two evergreen oaks that spread 
their dome of verdure at a little distance in front of the sanctu- 
ary. The shade being very thick, and a little breeze blowing 
from the north, Sir John, after an hour or so, felt rather chilly, 
so he got up, and began, with eyes still riveted on .he paper, 
walking slowly forward in the sun, and, as his evil star would 
have it, in the direction of Castellaro. The baronet vas in the 
keen enjoyment of a very sharp attack on the Whig leader of the 
hoQse by a member of the opposition, when all of a sudden a 


New Characters and Incidents. 


278 


shadow fell on his paper and raising his eyes, he fonnd himself 
confronted by a very short apoplectic-looking woman in a faded 
pink bonnet, and a tab, lanky, yellow man, all skin and bones, 
both of whom, with outstretched arms and frantic gesticulations, 
proceeded forthwith to apostrophize him in a violent theatrical 
manner. Sir John hurried on with an oath ; the man and 
woman, gasping and panting, but keeping their places on either 
side of the astounded baronet, most gallantly maintained their 
fire. Sir John, in despair, wheeled round again, and quickened 
his walk almost to a run ; the dramatic pair wheeled also, quick- 
ening their pace in the same proportion, the lady in particular, 
skipping after him in hot chase. 

“ Gracious me I” said Speranza, happening at the moment 
to look in that direction ; “ what can Milor, your papa, be run- 
ning so for ?” 

Don’t you see a man and woman pursuing him ?” exclaimed 
Lucy in dismay ; “ they are thieves, perhaps.” 

Oh, no 1 no danger of that,” replied Speranza, “ I see now 
who they are ; it is the manager of the Taggia theatre. Signor 
Pistacchini, with his wife. Pll run down and see what it is they 
want.” 

In another moment. Sir John stepped on the terrace, quite 
out of breath and temper. “ What is the matter, papa ?” cried 
Lucy. 

“ How can I tell you, child ?” grunted Sir John. “ A couple 
of vagabonds, who stick to me like my shadow, bellowing all the 
while as if they were possessed. I don’t understand a wcrd they 
are saying. No privacy to be had in this country, not evf.n at 
the top of a mountain.” 

“ Speranza knows these people,” said Lucy, soothingly ; “ they 
are actors belonging to the theatre of Taggia ; they mean no 
harm, I am sure.” 

What is it to me whether they mean harm or not, whaa 
12 * 


274 


Doctor Antonio. 


they do me actual harm V’ replied the baronet, sullenly. “ Con 
found the — a — pair of impudent strollers/' 

Lucy was silent. Speranza came back presently with the two 
famous addresses, and said that Signor and Signora Pistacchini 
having heard of Miss Davenne and Sir John's being in the 
neighborhood (it was worth something to hear Speranza say 
Sir John), had settled to give a grand performance in their 
honor, and had come up on foot all the way from Taggia to 
entreat that father and daughter would honor the theatre with 
their presence. “ The poor creatures are steaming like horses, 
and are so worn out and faint,” continued the girl, her voice 
dying into a whisper, meant only for Lucy's ear. 

“ Are faint with hunger ?” cried out Lucy, quite shocked, and 
her voice vibrated with painful surprise. “Papa, these poor 
people have walked all the way from Taggia, and have had no 
breakfast.'' 

“Well, what of that?” returned papa, peevishly; “if they 
have had no breakfast, why, let them have one, that's all.” 

Acting upon this hint, Speranza was despatched with orders 
to see that Signor Pistacchini and his wife were treated to a 
good meal, and to say that afterwards Miss Davenne would be 
happy to receive them. Lucy then looked over the addresses, 
and not without some peals of laughter did she translate to her 
father the one intended for him. Sir John could not help smiling 
at what he properly named the hungry style of the address. 
Shall we add that the incense it exhaled, however gross, rather 
agreeably tickled the worthy baronet's senses, and that the state- 
ment about the advent of the British Maecenas found favor in his 
sight ? 

“ Suppose we go, papa ?” said Lucy, seeing her father restored 
to serenity. 

“ And come back past midnight, up that break-neck road ?” 
asked Sir John. “ Nonsense, my dear. Signor Pastaccani, or 


New Characters and Incidents. 


275 


'lihatever you call lira, and his wife, do not care a fig for oui 
presence ; it is money they want. Give them some, and get rid 
of them.” 

“ We had better ask Doctor Antonio what to do,” said Lucy. 
“ Though it is clear enough that these people are sadly in want, 
yet (she went on with some hesitation) it is difficult to offer 
money to people who ask for none, and, for what we <know, may 
have seen better days.” Kind, sensible, considerate Lucy I 

“ Pooh I” said Sir John, rising to go, “ try and you will see 
whether they take it or not.” 

Agreed; Sir John, ten to one they would take it. Hunger, 
mahsuada fames, as you have read at school, is a beast hard to 
manage, and most of those who are in the saddle will dismount 
on any terms. Still, the method you propose has objections. 
Might not that handful of coins you bid your gentle daughter 
tender in the shape of alms, bring a blush on those two wrinkled 
brows, which had better be spared them ; or rend away one 
more shred of that last safeguard of honesty, self-respect, which 
had better be left untouched ? While, if you wait till to-mor- 
row, and send your large or small donation — through the benevo- 
lent doctor, for instance — send it as an equivalent for the 
pleasure that was prepared for you, the odds are ninety to a 
hundred that you wound no feeling, bow down no head in shi»me, 
and are blessed all the same as a generous benefactor. 

These reflections, that for the sake of effect, we have put 
under the form of an apostrophe to our friend the baronet, rose 
spontaneously in the mind of oar sweet heroine, and prompted 
her behavior during the subsequent interview with Signor Pistac- 
chini, and Signora Rosalinda. Far from offering money. Miss 
Davenne did not make even a remote allusion of the sort. She 
said how sorry she was that they had had such a hot and 
fatiguing walk, and how grateful she and her father were for 
their flattering invitation ; she was not sm’e whether she could 


276 


Doctor Antonio. 


avail herself of it, but some of her friends would be sure tc go t<j 
the theatre, and consequently she begged that two boxes, at all 
events, might be retained for their party in the name of Sir 
John Davenne. Upon this. Signor Pistacchini and his wife 
took theii’ leave, if not quite satisfied with the result of their 
expedition, yet highly enchanted with their reception, and so 
entirely conquered by Lucy^s grace and kindness, that they 
emphatically declared to Speranza, as she faithfully reported, 
that the young lady was an angel, and as such, they still hoped, 
would condescend to honor them with her presence on the 
ensuing evening. 

“ And why should you not go, dear lady said Speranza, her 
great eyes sparkling — “ only think what a splendid performance 
it will be, with illuminations as bright as day, and a flight of 
pigeons I” 

“ Should you like to see it V* asked Lucy, smiling at the pea* 
Bant girPs enthusiasm. 

“ Oh yes I — of all things in the world — and Battista too,” was 
the naive reply. “ Signor Pistacchini is such a beautiful actor, 
they say.” 

“ Indeed 1” said Lucy ; “ well, Speranza, you shall go.” 

“Not unless you do,” answered Speranza, resolutely. 

“ And why not ?” returned Lucy. Speranza silently shook 
her head. “We shall see what Doctor Antonio says about the 
matter ; at all events, you shall stay here till to-morrow. Hut- 
chins, I dare say, will find a corner for you in her room, and 
Battista must do the best he can for himself.” 

“ Oh I never mind him, he can sleep anywhere,” said Sper- 
anza ; and away she ran in high glee to communicate thLi 
unexpected arrangement to her lover. 

When Doctor Antonio returned, Lucy gave him Signor Pi» 
tftcchinPs fine piece of eloquence to read. 

What do you think of doing ?” he asked. 


New Characters ana Incidents. 877 

“ Wliat should you advise ?” inquired Lucy, in her turn. 

*' I should advise you to go,” said the doctor ; “ when a little 
bit of human nature offers to your observation, why should you 
not profit by the opportunity ? So my advice is, Go.” 

“ I would fain do so,” returned Lucy, “ chiefly on Speranza^s 
account, who has set her heart on going. But papa objects, as it 
would be difficult to come back to Lampedusa at night.” 

“ I don’t see why you should absolutely come back to Lampe* 
dusa for the night,” observed Antonio. 

“ Have you not told me yourself many a time that there is no 
decent hotel at Taggia ?” 

“ True,” said the Italian ; “ but you and your father could 
sleep at Signora Eleonora’s.” 

“You mean at the house you call your home ?” 

“Just so. Signora Eleonora wishes very much to make you? 
acquaintance.” 

“ I am much obliged both to her and you, but it is not my 
habit to put to any inconvenience persons whom I don’t know. 
We shall not go.” 

This brief sentence was delivered curtly, haughtily, almost 
scornfully, in the best style of Sir John Davenne himself, when 
on his high horse. Antonio colored deeply, but said nothing. 
He went to a chair at some distance, took up the paper that was 
lying on it, sat down, and seemed absorbed by its contents. We 
cannot vouch that he did actually read, unless he read the same 
word over and over again, as his eyes did not move. Lucy went 
on with her drawing, seemingly in a great hurry to finish and get 
rid of it. 

Presently Speranza came in, singing merrily, “ikfa Vamor ddla 
Rosina, Dove mai lo trove, — but the song died on her lips the 
moment she saw the couple on the terrace, sitting so far 
apart from one another, with every appearance of indifference 
to each other’s society. She went on tiptoe to Doctor Aato» 


278 


Doctor Antonio. 


nio, and asked in an under tone, “Are we to go to thf 
theatre 

“ I am afraid not, my poor Speranza ; Miss Daveane refuses tc 
sleep at Signora Eleonora’s.” 

“ Oh I what a pity I” cried Speranza, very crestfallen ; “ and 
why does she refuse ?” 

“ I do not know — you can ask herself.” 

Speranza went to Lucy, and bending down at her side, said 
something to her in a whisper, overheard by the. doctor. Lucy 
rose instantly, went up to Doctor Antonio, and leaning on the 
back of his chair, said with some little confusion, “ Is the kindest 
of doctors still inclined to introduce the crosses! of girls to Sig' 
nora Eleonora ?” 

“Tc be sure I” said Antonio, looking up at her with a queer 
mixture of amazement and pleasure ; “ how can you doubt it ?” 

“ Then,” said Lucy, all smiles and blushes, “ I shall be most 
happy to make your friend’s acquaintance.” 

Now or never would have been the time for the doctor’s 
exclaiming with Figaro : — '^DonTie, Donne, eterni Dei chi r’ arriva 
a indovinar ?” Who, indeed, can fathom the depths of a woman’s 
heart ? Here was a girl, just now all pepper and vinegar, who 
suddenly becomes as sweet as sugar-candy ; she, who scornfully 
refused, but a moment ago, to accept a civility from a person she 
did not know, now begs as a favor to be introduced to that very 
person I Where is the criterion, we would like to know, 
whereby to account for such flagrant contradictions ? Wc had 
% faint hope of finding a clue to this riddle in the few words 
whispered by Speranza to the young lady, but the more we 
’eflect on those words, the less can we see how they could have 
occasioned that sudden change in Miss Davenne’s disposition ^ 
however, let the judicious reader judge for himself, and make 
what he can of them ; we transcribe them literally. “ Why,” 
had said Speranza, “ why, dear lady, will you not go to Signora 


New Characters and Incidents. 27 S 

Eleonora ? Sbt is the nicest and sweetest old lady in all the 
Riviera.” 

Another thing that puzzles us is this, how a man of sense and 
feeling, as we take Antonio to be, should not have called on 
Lucy to explain the why of her unreasonable crossness, or how it 
was that he should not have thought proper, at least to put 
on a look expressive of some displeasure at the willful ways of 
the dear spoiled child. But quite the contrary. Antonio gazed 
on her more fondly than ever, and addressed her with a thrill in 
his voice, as if Miss Lucy’s whim had still more endeared her to 
Mm. 

“ And Sir John ?” asked the doctor. 

We must try and coax papa to agree to go,” said Lucy. 
ITie negotiation with Sir J ohn was long and difficult, lasting all 
dinner-time. Lucy brought all her feminine diplomacy to bear 
against papa, and was admirably seconded by that rogue of a 
Doctor Antonio, who, from time to time, threw out mysterious 
hints about Signora Eleonora’s ancestors, and talked in such a 
way about the loop-holes and casements of that lady’s dwelling, 
as invested it with the prestige of a castle. What could Sir John, 
thus attacked in every weak point, do but yield ? Lucy was in 
the most amiable and cheerful mood all the rest of the day, she 
had taken such a fancy to the old lady that she could speak of 
nothing else, and during the quiet walk she took after dinner, 
with her father and Doctor Antonio, to the jungle of wild roses, 
Lucy insisted on hearing the Signora’s story, which did not take 
long telling. Signora Eleonora was a widow, of whose numeroua 
family only two sons survived, and both of these sons were 
political exiles. The lady had left Genoa, the former residence 
of the family, for the environs of Taggia, where all that remained 
of the bulk of her property was situated, and where she lived in 
great retirement. A short story, concluded Antonio, which 
might easily be made a long and impressive one, could only 


m 


Doctor Antonio. 


the hundredth part of the sorrow, fortitude, and active charity, 
comprised in it be related. How warmly Lucy sympathized now 
with Doctor Antonio’s admiration for Signora Eleonora ; how 
keenly she felt for her, and for another poor bereaved mother 
frhose only son was also an exile I 


The rheatre. 


281 


Chapter XVII. 

The Theatre. 

On coming to the sanctuary next morning, Antonio foand 
Lucy very busy making a sketch of Signora Eleonora^s house, 
which she intended as a present to the old lady. Lucy had not 
discovered till that morning how picturesque the old building 
looked, and how nicely the dark-vaulted gallery along its front 
uiiitrasted with the open terrace above, all verdant with a trellis 
of vine. Antonio sat down by Lucy, and began telling her how 
on the previous evening he had paid a visit to the Pistacchinis, 
whom he had found supping on a salad — to give them the 
longed-for news that Sir John Davenne and his daughter would 
honor the play with their company on the morrow ; and how the 
intelligence had been received with such frantic demonstrations 
of joy, such hurrahing, such dancing about the room, such a 
throwing of the poor salad out of the window, that he, the 
doctor, had for a moment hesitated whether he ought not to 
have recourse to his lancet as a sedative. “ To see the manager,^ 
pursued the doctor, “ as I have seen him this morning, parading 
through the Pantano in all his glory, receiving and answering 
with a royal condescension suited to Aristodemo, applications for 
tickets pouring in on him from all sides — to hear the thrilling 
inflections of his voice, as he confidentially stated to me that 
places were at a premium, and that he relied on the receipt of 0 


Doctor Antonio. 


hundred francs — to see and hear this was better than an^ 
comedy ever acted. You are going to make the fortune of the 
company. All Taggia will assemble in the theatre to see the 
Enghsh family.^' 

“ But how do they know that we shall be there ?” asked Lucy. 

“ Everything is known in small places like this, and then 
Pistacchini has taken good care that the public shall be circum- 
stantially informed. There is even now hanging over the Cartel- 
lone (huge play-bill) in the Pantano, this announcement in letters 
half a foot high, Under the Patronage of the English Family ; 
besides which, all the manuscript bills placarded at every corner 
have significant N. B. in large text, The presence of the English 
Family is certain U 

Lucy was excessively diverted by the notion of thus forming 
the great attraction of the evening^s performance, and Antonio 
went on to tell her of the arrangements he had made. There 
was, as far as he could judge, but one possibility of anything 
going wrong. Signora Eleonora had done wonders already in 
providing for the reception, not only of Sir John and his daugh- 
ter, but also in finding a room for Speranza and Hutchins : that^ 
however, was all she could do. Now, Doctor Antonio had his 
misgivings how English John would stand the delights and com- 
forts of the Taggia Locanda, whither he was to go under 
Battista^s charge. John had, to be sure, been seen to smile 
when told at what cost he must enjoy the theatre ; “ but his 
ignorance,” stated Doctor Antonio, “ is a bliss from which 1 
dread his awaking. And to-morrow, at two o’clock,” ended the 
doctor, “ I have settled with Sir John that the whole party shall 
be at the crossway, where the Taggia road joins that of Nice, to 
return to Bordighera.” 

*‘I shall be glad to see that old ugly Osteria again,” said 
Lucy, smiling ; “ what transports Rosa will be in to have us 

back.” 


The Theatre. 


283 


.A., u. little past seven in the evening, Sir John and Lucy 
Eiit/unted the mules that were to take them down the mountain. 
Sir John was as trim and precise in his dress as if he had been 
going to her majesty’s theatre on a drawing-room night ; Lucy 
was in her blue muslin and broad straw-hat, which Speranza 
had adorned with dIuc cornflowers and red poppies, and vastly 
lovely she looked, the little flutter of her spirits giving unusual 
brightness to her complexion. It being still broad daylight, the 
descent though steep had no danger ; Antonio, however, hud his 
hand all the way on the young lady’s bridle-rein. They left the 
mules at the entrance of the bridge, and joined by the two Eng- 
lish servants and the Italian lovers, they crossed over in military 
order, turned to the left, and after a five minutes’ walk by the 
river-side, came all at once on an enormous palace. “ It is 
curious, is it not,” remarked Antonio, “ to find in a small town 
like Taggia, a building belonging to a private family, of such 
magnificence and taste as this, having a theatre to boot, like 
another Versailles ?” A crowd was assembled here, evidently 
gaping with curiosity, but a passage was at once made for the 
English visitors, who were piloted by Antonio, through a gate 
to the left, into a peristyle swarming with people on tiptoe also, 
to get a peep of the illustrious strangers. 

To the left of the entrance-door was a table covered with red 
cloth, and on the table, between two lighted wax candles, was a 
silver basin, containing a fair average of coins, some modestly 
enveloped in paper, others boldly uncovered, and before that 
table, like the Dragon of Hesperides, was seated our newly-made 
acquaintance, Orlanda Pistaccliini, in the royal robes, and on his 
head the royal bandeau of Aristodemus, king of Messenia. As 
soon as he caught a glimpse of Sir John, he rose up, laid his two 
palms on his heart, and in that attitude made a low obeisance to 
the new comers. Sir John, who had been previously instructed 
by Antonio of the custom on such occasions, dropped a very neal 


284 


Doctor Antonio. 


compact liitle packet of white paper into the basin, which, as ;t 
fell, gave forth a most exhilarating jingle. Expectation was at 
its highest pitch ; every neck lengthened and strained towards 
the table. Aristodemus bowed once again, had one wild passing 
bought of snatching at the packet, but conquering the tempta- 
ion, led the way up a flight of wooden stairs to the two reserved 
boxes. Here he again crossed his palms over his heart, bowed 
low, and retreated without turning his back, as though in the 
presence of royalty. Lucy put off her hat, and leaning over the 
front of the box, with her beautiful rich ringlets flowing in pro- 
fusion down her cheeks and neck, elicited a general murmur of 
admiration from every part of the house. 

It was a pretty little theatre, brilliantly illuminated with wax 
candles, and pit and boxes crammed to suffocation. “All the 
ban and arriert ban of the local aristocracy are at their post/' 
whispered Antonio to Lucy. 

“ Aristocracy at Taggia I” said Lucy, smiling. 

“ Yes, indeed, and among the most stiff-necked of aristocra- 
cies,” remarked Antonio, slily. “The list is headed by a 
marchioness, that elderly lady there with the Genoese jpezzotto 
on her head, and who looks — mark that I only say looks — so 
unpretending. This palace and theatre belong to her, and her 
family have been lords of the soil from time immemorial. The 
marchioness lias paid you the compliment of giving up her box 
to you this evening.” 

“ How kind !” exclaimed Lucy ; “ I should like to be able to 
thank her.” 

“ You can adopt our Italian custom if you like, and pay her a 
visit in her box. That pinched nose and yellow face, shadowed 
by white feathers on the left, belong to a baroness, and the old 
gentleman with the powdered head, whispering in her ear, and 
who looks so full of importance, is the mayor of the town. Thai 
grey-haired, grey-eyed, lusty countenance beyond, which looks sc 


The Theatre. 


285 


innocent ” — Antonio^s descriptions were suddenly cut short by a 
sharp whistle, and the curtain rising, discovered to view Aristo* 
demo in that peculiar brown study which seems the normal con 
dition of all tragedy heroes. But not all Orlando’s efforts at 
official despondency could subdue the joyous twinkle which the 
certainty of a monster receipt had kindled in his eyes. Aristode- 
■ms went through his part with spirit, and met his death in gal- 
lant style, his fall being pronounced capital by connoisseurs. 
Lucy had all the while the benefit of a double performance, of 
which the one on the stage was not the most interesting. 
Through a chink in the wooden partition between the boxes, she 
and Antonio could see Battista’s countenance, and watch all the 
crescendo of terror depicted in the young man’s features when he 
saw the king feel for his poignard and try its point. “Is he 
going to kill himself ?” he asked of Speranza, in great alarm ; 
and what a start he gave, and how his hair literally stood on end 
when the steps of the spectre, who is supposed to inhabit the 
royal tomb, were heard approaching, and Aristodemus, driven to 
madness by the sound, actually plunged his poignard into his 
breast I 

The flight of pigeons which came after the tragedy gave rise 
to an incident which still farther increased the excitement always 
attendant on this pretty sight. Inventive Signor Pistacchini had 
arranged, as he hoped, an agreeable surprise for the English 
visitors and the public, in the shape of a pigeon, which, fastened 
by some contrivance of his own to two packthreads thrown across 
from a sort of odl de hauf in the drop scene, to the front of the 
box occupied by the strangers, was to appear to glide of its own 
accord within their reach. Now, from some impediment or 
other, the bird thus launched only achieved half of its aerial 
course, and stopping midway, nung head downwards, fluttering 
its wings most piteously. This mischance caused an immoderate 
aproar ; the whole pit rose at once, the most enthusiastic stand' 


286 


Doctor Antonio. 


ing on the benches with uplifted arms, vainlj striving to reach 
the pigeon, while a universal shout for the manager was raised 
Pistacchini quickly made his appearance, armed with a pole, and 
getting down from the stage into the pit, he managed to push 
the unlufky bird sufficiently near to Lucy to allow Antonio to 
release and deliver it into the English girPs hands, amid a thun- 
der of applause. 

This little addition to the entertainment, which was not in the 
evening’s programme, being over, Lucy went and paid a visit to 
the marchioness to thank that noble lady for having given up her 
box. “So very kind,” said Miss Lucy, “as it undoubtedly 
afforded the best view of the stage and then she spoke so 
nicely about the beauty of the palace and the prettiness of the 
theatre, that she had left the old dowager highly prepossessed in 
her favor. 

After having endured the protracted terrors of the tragedy, 
Battista might be held eutitled to some indemnification at the 
manager’s hands, and if so, he certainly received an ample one 
from the comedy which followed. Who could depict his trans- 
ports at seeing the “ Puzzled Tutor,” listening thunderstruck to 
his eldest pupil’s confession that he is married, yes, positively 
married, to the young lady of the house opposite ! Unhappy 
tutor, what is he to say to his pupil’s father, who has ordained 
and decreed that his sons are never to exchange a word with one 
of the other sex 1 Not only married, but. Heaven help us I the 
Dapa of a baby who is actually heard crying and screaming ! 
The tutor is leady to tear his nair. His pupil a family man, his 
misogamist employer a grandfather I Into what fits of irresisti- 
ble laughter was Battista thrown when the youngest son of thif 
terrible count is surprised by his father, on his knees, making 
declaration to Martha, the old cook ? and then, when the 
zled Dominie ” is persuaded to go and fetch the baby, 
confronted on the way back by the count, who flings 


The Theatre. 


m 

pool man^s scanty cloak, and discovers the infant Bernardinc 
topsy-turvey, like the poor pigeon, what ecstacy of glee could be 
compared to that of Battista? And, indeed, who could help 
laughing at the drollery of this comedy ? Even to Sir John 
Davenne, who understood but little of what was going on, the 
laughter was contagious, while as for Lucy, she laughed almost 
as much as Battista. 

Before the end of the evening the marchioness returned Lucy^s 
visit, and the mayor, as the representative of the town, came 
partly to pay his respects to Sir John and Miss Davenne, and 
partly to indulge his own curiosity and that of the baroness, 
whose compliments he was charged to deliver. Lucy was really 
pleased with all this attention, and the proud baronet not a little 
gratified, particularly as that wag of a doctor minutely detailed 
with becoming gravity all the titles and qualifications of these 
personages. 

It was past midnight when the curtain fell for good and all, 
and our party made their exit from the theatre, Antonio, con- 
fiding to Lucy as he saw John — rendered more than usually 
solemn by the reflected honors of the evening — marching away 
with Battista, that he respected J ohn as a martyr. As for the 
English lady’s maid, who, arm-in-arm with Speranza, followed in 
the rear of Sir John, Lucy, and Antonio, she was in a great state 
of flutter j and when she discovered that the party of young 
men — the cabinet-maker very conspicuous — before and behind 
them, carrying blazing torches, and singing Rossini’s “ Buoua 
Sera,” were there to do them honor, she fell to crying and laugh- 
ing, it was so dreadfully afiecting, she declared. This escort 
was quite a spontaneous compliment. Doctor Antonio asserted, 
with which he had nothing to do. Thus accompanied, they 
reached Signora Eleonora’s house, where they were received 
by a smart young woman aud man, it having been made one of 
the conditions of the acceptance of the old lady’s hospitality, tha> 


288 


Doctor Antonio. 


she should not sit up for them, and after taking tea, which was all 
ready, the baronet and his daughter were shown to their rooms, 
Speranza and Miss Hutchins to theirs, and the doctor departed 
to find a bed at some other friend^s house. 

It was rather lace in the morning when Lucy, after a night of 
sound sleep, got up, and going to open the window to let in the 
fresh air, caught sight of a comely lady, dressed in black, walk- 
ing in the garden below, who appeared to be impressing direc- 
tions in a cautious whisper on the smart young woman, Lucy’s 
acquaintance of the previous evening, now busy gathering 
flowers to add to the large nosegay she already held in her hand. 
The noise of the window opening caused Signora Eleonora to 
look up. “ Ah I good morning, Miss Davenne,” said the lady, 
in a tone of hearty welcome, “it does my heart good to see you ; 
I hope we have not disturbed your sleep 

“ Oh ? not at all, thank yoct,’’ said Lucy, blushing, “ I have 
slept so well.” 

“ So much the better,” returned the kind old lady ; “ young 
people need a good deal of rest. You must let me know when 
you are ready to receive me. I long to kiss that sweet face of 
yours.” 

When, shortly after, the Italian lady, carrying the fliiWcrs with 
her, went to visit her young guest, there was in her voice and 
smile so much softness, something so touching in the slight 
melancholy that fell, like a veil, over her whole person, some- 
thing so truly motherly in the manner with which, taking Lucy’s 
hands in her own, she parted the ringlets from the fair brow, and 
kissed her the while, and called her “ my child,” that Lucy felt 
a tightening of her throat, which prevented her giving an answer 
to the kind inquiries after her health, and leant her lovely head 
on the bosom of her newly-found friend. Poor Lucy could not 
help thinking all the time of her own dear mother. 

While the two ladies were thus making acquaintance with one 


The I'heatre. 


289 


another, Sir John had been on a tour of inspection, and was 
receiving impressions from all he saw much to the advantage of 
the dwelling and its owner. Though not looking half so grand 
as they had done on the night before, when seen by iorch-light, 
still the gloomy archway and avenue of stone pillars that led up 
to the house, and the dingy, strong built house itself, all had a 
solemn stern appearance of their own, which pleased and inte- 
rested the Englishman. The half-effaced frescoes on the time 
worn walls, the mutilated statue of the marble fountain, facing 
the entrance, the coat of arms, carved in black stone over the 
doors and over the mantel-pieces of the huge fire-places within, 
all such vestiges of ancient splendor had been noticed and 
chronicled in favor of Signora Eleonora, and had set working the 
bump of veneration for old things and old times, which was 
among the most prominent on the baronet^s skull. Doctor 
Antonio, bent on obtaining his breakfast, came suddenly upon 
the baronet, who was standing, with head thrown back, appa- 
rently meditating on a species of old funnel, with a double open 
ing over the great door, which Doctor Antonio said was an 
appendage of most houses near the coast, being meant to enable 
those within to pour down heated liquids on the assailants. The 
appearance of the Chatelaine, just coming from the garden, hand- 
in-hand with Lucy, completed the series of agreeable impressions 
received by the baronet, who, unable to express his feelings 
otherwise, hastened forward to hand the old lady to the house 
with all due deference. Signor Eleonora was not only ladylike, 
as he subsequently whispered to Antonio, but had all the dignity 
of manner belonging to a court. 

The table was laid on the terrace, of which we have already 
had occasion to speak, and Signora Eleonora and her guests sat 
down to breakfast in the pleasant shade of a vine, which, trained 
over a trellis, hung down in festoons, forming a verdant wall on 
all sides, except to the south, from whence there was a glorious 

18 


290 


Doctor Antonio. 


view of the sea. Signora Eleonora did the honors of the tabU 
"vith that easy grace of manner, under which a true lady of the 
old school knows so well how to hide her unremitting attention 
to the comfort of each guest To see her smile so pleasantly, to 
hear her talk so cheerfully, you would never surmise that the 
dear old lady had wounds in her heart which bled without inter- 
mission. Signora Eleonora did not make one of that numerous 
sisterhood who use their own sorrows as a club with which 
to knock down other people’s spirits. Indeed, during the two 
hours she had spent with Lucy the kind soul had not so much 
as made the most covert allusion to her trials ; and Lucy, 
though ardently wishing to show her sympathy, had not dared 
to broach a subject so kept in the background. Encouraged, 
however, by the doctor’s presence, our sweet English girl now 
made bold to ask Signora Eleonora how her sons were. They 
were very well when last she heard, was the answer. 

“ I hope,” went on Lucy, after a little hesitation, “ that you 
hear regularly from them.” 

“ Pretty regularly,” said the old lady, hitherto, thank God ; 
a little sooner or a little later, letters from my sons have always 
found their way to me.” 

Lucy’s eyes turned to Antonio. 

“ Signora Eleonora means to say,” explained the doctor, that 
hitherto the person or persons deputed to open and scan all 
letters from the signora’s sons to her, or hers to them, have been 
generous enough to let them reach their destination.” 

“ It is too bad,” exclaimed the warm-hearted Lucy, to “inter 
fere in that way between a mother and her sons.” 

“ Bad as the case is,” observed the signora, meekly, “ it might 
be still worse. I have heard of poor Polish refugees who were 
pitilessly cut off for years and years from all epistolary inter* 
uourse with their mothers and wives.” 

Boiiest Sir John, on being made cognizant of the topic they 


The Theatre; 


291 


mre discussing, declared that he considered the charge thus laid 
at the door of the government of so serious and odious a nature, 
that — that — that 

“ That you can scarcely believe it,” prompted Antonio, 
** unless clearly proved by facts. This is but just. Will Signora 
Eleonora allow me to tell Sir John the story of the French 
marshal ?” 

Signora Eleonora having smiled assent, Antonio proceeded 
thus : — “ One of Signora Eleonora’s sons, at that time a child 
of eight years old, while living here, took a great liking to a boy 
of his own age, a native of Taggia, and they became great play- 
fellows and friends. In the course of years this boy was drawn 
for the army, and rose to the rank of sergeant. Two years ago 
this young man happened to come here on a visit to his parents, 
and Signora Eleonora, naturally enough, in writing to her son, 
mentioned that his former playfellow, now a good-looking soldier 
of eight-and-twenty, had risen to be a non-commissioned oflBcer. 
The signora’s son wrote back how glad he was to hear of the 
good fortune of the ‘ marshal,’ as he jokingly called his former 
playmate. Well and good. A few days after receiving this 
letter, who should caU upon Signora Eleonora but that same 
powder-headed old gentleman who paid you a visit in your box 
last evening, no other, in fact, than the mayor of Taggia, who 
required of her to let him see without delay the French marshal 
she harbored in her house, or it would be his unpleasant duty — 
such being the precise orders he had received from Turin — ^to 
proceed to search the house. Signora Eleonora at first could 
scarcely believe her own ears. A French marshal I — where had 
she ever known one ? At last she recollected her son’s letter, 
and so laughed at the worthy magistrate as quite to put him out 
of countenance. Explanations were given, the letter shown^ 
and here the matter ended.” 

Sir John had heard before -pf permanent courts-martial for 


292 


Doctor Antonio. 


trying, shooting, or hanging Italian patriots by the score, of 
thousands languishing in prison, or wandering homeless through 
the world, yet none of these collective misfortunes had awakened 
his sympathies or aroused his indignation half so much as this 
little anecdote. There was something so puerile, so mean in 
such surveillance, he said. Thus, a homoeopathic dose of medi- 
cine has sometimes been known to act powerfully on constitu- 
tions which had resisted allopathic doses ten thousand times as 
strong. It may be, too, that the sight of the gentle-looking 
person to whom such indignities had been offered, had roused all 
the man in Sir John’s breast. We suppose that he knew nothing 
at that time of a certain English statute which made it legal in 
certain circumstances, and under certain regulations, to break 
the seal of private letters, and pry into their contents, even in 
his constitutional and free country; ten to one but that, when he 
did become aware of such a provision, though loathing the very 
name of reform, he wished for a reform in that respect, and did 
his best to bring o»e about. 

After breakfast, Lucy went to her room to fetch the sketch 
which she had made of Signora Eleonora’s house. The old lady 
was as much pleased with it as though it had not been the work 
of a beginner, and fastening it to the wall in her sitting-room, 
said that she should never see it without thinking of her young 
English friend. It was now time to go. The signora insisted 
upon accompanying them to the end of the avenue. Sir John 
offered her his arm, and it was a pleasure to see with what a 
courtly and deferential air he supported his hostess, and the care 
he took to suit his step to hers. The parting between the two 
ladies was touching ; they separated more like friends than 
acquaintances of a few hours’ standing. Big tears trembled in 
Lucy’s eyes as she fondly kissed the withered cheeks of the old 
lady, and said, “ I pray that one day you may be consoled by 
Tour dear ones being restored to you ” Big tears trembled is 


Ihe Iheatre. 


29S 


Signora Eleonora'S eyes, as, kissing the fresl beaatiful gxirl, she 
answered, “ May it please God to listen to your prayer I live 
in hope ; but if the Almighty has willed it otherwise, I have 
faith that we shall all meet there and she raised her eyes to 
heaven. “ God bless you I Farewell I” — and they were gone. 

Signora Eleonora stood still, giving a last wave of her hand 
ere they disappeared at the turn of the road, then, with slow 
iteps and brow bent to the ground, the lonely soul walked back 
her lonel? house. 


29i 


Doctor Antonio 


Chapter XVIIl 

The Doctor Pledges himself. 

Early and quietly on the next day but one after the return 
to the Osteria, Battista and Speranza were married in the parish 
church, and by ten o’clock, the usual breakfast hour of the 
English family, every trace of such little festivity as could not be 
dispensed with, viz., the modest repast and a very limited number 
of guests, had all disappeared. Much as Battista had set his 
heart on parading the fair prize he had won through the main 
street of Bordighera, and on the being serenaded in the evening 
— much as Speranza would have liked to display to the whole 
town her complete bridal attire, a gift from Lucy, which had 
arrived from Genoa the day before, and last, not least, to exhibit 
the bridegroom’s comely figure, killing locks of hair, and new 
(Suit of velveteen, yet, upon consideration, they thought it wiser 
to deny themselves such indulgences. The fine gauze dress, rich 
veil, orange-flower wreath, and white satin shoes, were therefore 
laid by with an effort so heroic, that we can conceive none 
greater, unless we compare it to that which Battista made when 
he thanked the musical band of Bordighera, and begged them 
not to come. 

“So that we are happy, what does it signify whether we 
appear so or not to other people ?” said Speranza in explanation 
to Miss Davenne. “ Were we to make a smart show, or did I 


Tke Doctor Pledges Himself. 


29fi 

put on the beautiful things you have given me, there would be a 
gossip and outcry about the bride, and her finery, and the wed- 
ding, and this and that, ten miles round. And what would be 
the consequence ? Why, that we should be recalled to mind in a 
quarter where it is safest for us to be forgotten. The less Bat 
tista’s name is mentioned, the better for us.” Non destar can ch 
dorme, — don’t rouse sleeping dogs, — an Italian proverb of much 
import and frequent application in a country where everybody’s 
fortune and liberty are at the mercy of irresponsible powers ; 
where, for instance, a poor woman can be despoiled ij^so facto^ of 
her hard-earned savings, and hear them adjudged to the denoun- 
cing party by a commandant in his cups ; and where a legal 
adviser for suggesting legal means of redress, can be sent to a 
fortress, and kept there for months to learn to hold his tongue 
another time. No wonder if, with such flagrant examples before 
their eyes, people grew prudent in self-defence. Were you aware 
that you were walking over mined ground, would you not do sc 
with cautious steps ? Similar cases to the one above quoted had 
been, and were of public notoriety. We have picked one out of 
a hundred as peculiarly illustrative of a system which meddled 
with everything and everybody on any and every occasion. 
Travellers describe a tree in the island of Java, whose pestiferous 
exhalations blight every tiny blade of grass within the compass 
of its shade. So it is with despotism. No detail of life, however 
purely personal or trivial, is safe from the subtle, all-pervading 
action of this accursed upas-tree. 

As soon as ihe hot weather had regularly set in, which was by 
the middle of July, it was decided that Miss Davenne should 
begin her course of sea-baths. Her wish was to bathe in the 
dusk of the evening, but Antonio put in his veto against this, and 
was not to be coaxed into consenting, his fear being that the 
bath, acting as a stimuiant, might interfere with her nighjt^g 
sleep. “We will build a bathing-machine for you,” said the cod 


296 


Doctor Antonio. 


siderate doctor, in which you may be as private as in your owr 
room.” And this was no boast, as the sequel proved, f:>r a few 
hours afterwards, there rose on the beach of the Gulf of Sjptdor 
Utti, as trim and commodious a machine as ever graced the 
shores of fashionable Brighton or Dieppe. “What a turn for 
mechanics this man must have had, he is always contriving,” 
I fancy I hear some reader exclaim on reading this. I beg yoi” 
pardon, sir, or madam — Antonio had no more turn for mechanics 
than you or I, but he had what I wish you and I had, a great 
will to serve and oblige his fellow-creatures; and there is nothing 
like that, I am told, for rendering a man ingenious. Set to it in 
a proper spirit, gentle reader, and you will yourself be the first to 
wonder at the result. 

Antonio’s bathing-machine was nothing more nor less than the 
body of an old cart with an awning and curtains fastened by 
ropes which could be shortened or lengthened at will, to stout 
piles driven into the beach. A short ladder gave access to it 
from the land side, and a longer one on the sea side. A con- 
trivance, you see, not likely to have cost its inventor much effort 
of imagination. Four red streamers, floated gracefully from the 
four poles supporting the awning, and gave a smart look to the 
whole. But in this and other embellishments Antonio had nc 
share whatever, they were Battista’s exclusive fancying and 
making . — Suum mique. 

Every morning at peep of day, Lucy, attended by Speranza as 
bathing-woman — Speranza who could swim like a shark — went to 
enjoy her bath and the wonders of the sunrise. Though a part 
of her childhood had been spent in the country, yet, owing to her 
indifferent health, Lucy had never been an early riser ; conse- 
quently, that marvellous crescendo of light, and sound, and life, 
with which Nature seems to hail the advent of her Great Lumi- 
nary, was quite a novelty to her, and a delicious one. After the 
bath, which was to last at first a quarter of an hour and nc 


The Doctor Pledges Himself. 297 

longer — such being the precise orders of the Bordighera Escu 
lapius — and which Speranza was not the woman to see infringed; 
Lucy was to have a cup of hot tea, and return to her bed till 
seven, when she got up. The rest of the morning till ten, when 
she joined her father for breakfast, Miss Davenne employed first 
in watering and tending her flowers — she had quite a garden 
of her own now — then with her pencils and brushes in the 
balcony. Doctor Antonio always made h’S appearance about 
eleven, remaining an hour with her, talking or reading. The 
hours between mid-day and dinner were occupied by a siesta, by 
strolls in the garden, by a book enjoyed in the shade, by paint* 
ing again, or the piano. We have omitted, we believe, to say 
that an excellent piano had been procured from Nice. Occa* 
sionally, there were duets with the doctor, who never failed tc 
make a second call in the afternoon. Her day generally closed 
with a short walk up the hill, or a visit to the count’s casino, 
with sometimes a drive to a neighboring town or hamlet. But 
this last became daily of rarer occurrence, for the gentle-natured 
girl had observed poor Battista’s disappointment and mortifica^ 
tion whenever he saw the carriage at the gate, and the crest- 
fallen looks with which he vanished into the gloomiest recesses 
of the garden ; and she had no heart to inflict on any one 
unnecessary trials. Battista’s first excessive terror of Lucy had 
given place to a reverential adoration as excessive. Whenever 
she went out to walk, he would watch her from a respectful 
distance, or, if he thought himself unobserved, follow at her 
heels ; and many a time had his quickness and cleverness in 
getting out of sight, on the walkers turning suddenly round, and 
then once more re-appearing in their rear, been a source of 
amusement and astonishment to Lucy and Doctor Antonio. 
There was a good deal of the dog in Battista’s nature ; which 
remark is not meant in disparagement, but quite the contrary, 
considering tliat the canine race are remarkable for fidelity 

13 * 


298 


Doctor Antonio. 


devotion, and sagacity, all qualities in which few other animalf 
of the creation excel. 

Our sweet Lucy benefited much by the sea-baths, and more 
still, it is allowable to conjecture, from such a tenor of life as we 
have depicted-one equally free from ennui or excitement. Sir 
John was in raptures at her glowing cheeks and dawning tmbo^- 
foint, and would jocosely observe to the doctor, that she was 
certainly about to rival Signora Pistacchini in size. If country 
life be healthful to the body, it is no less so to the mind. Few 
have sought to become intimate with Nature, interesting them- 
selves in her wonderful proceedings, without bearing witness to 
the enlargement of ideas, and the awakening of wholesome sym- 
pathies consequent upon such communion. At all events this 
was the case with Lucy. Perhaps — we hope we shall not be 
charged with presumption in behalf of our hero, when we hint, 
that, perhaps, her constant intercourse with a man of some 
experience, practical good sense, and genuine simplicity of heart, 
like Antonio, might have contributed in some degree to such a 
result. Be this as it may, one thing was certain, Lucy felt and 
was quite another being, with new powers, both physical and 
mental. 

Antonio, in the meanwhile, was stroking his beard violently. 
Ever since the trip to Lampedusa, or to be more particular, ever 
since that afternoon when Lucy proved so whimsical and incon- 
sistent, a change had come over our dear friend. That evenness 
of spirit and temper, which might have been compared to the 
gentle, measured flow of transparent waters, was now somewhat 
disturbed, and subject to fits of intermission. Antonio was less 
talkative than he used to be, and would sit by Lucy’s side for 
half an hour together without uttering a word ; evidently 
abstracted even to absence of mind. One day, on being sud- 
denly ai'oused from one of these reveries by the question, “ What 
are you thinking of — ^he reddened prodigiously, and — curious 


The Doctor Fledges Himself. 


299 


enough — Lucy caught the infection, and blushed also. There 
was, too, at times, something formal and ceremonious in his 
manner of addressing Lucy, as of one desirous to retrace some 
of those steps which circumstances aiding and abetting, had led 
to that gentle familiarity which existed between himself and Miss 
Davenne. But Lucy would not submit to these manoeuvres ; she 
took the bull by the horns, as the saying is, and with the pettish- 
ness of a spoiled child, would exclaim, on any snch occasion, 
What have I done to you that you look so cold and distant 
today ? Do you wish to show me that, now I am quite well, 
you do not care about me — that I am a bore to you V’ or some 
such remonstrance. As there was no resisting the spell of her 
voice, and of the feelings that prompted her words, the upshot 
of the matter was, that any attempts at formality, if there were 
any intention of the kind on Antonio’s part, ended in creating 
BtUl more friendly feelings and interest in the heart of each for 
the other. 

The symptoms exhibited by our doctor were such as to give 
intimation of some inward struggle, a struggle about the definite 
nature and object of which, we regret that we cannot be as 
explicit as we would — nay, can offer nothing more than mere 
conjecture. A human heart is a skeio of such imperceptibly and 
subtly interwoven threads, that even the owner of it is often him- 
self at a loss how to unravel it, and, in all likelihood, this was 
the case with Antonio. That a man of his discretion and tem- 
perate habits of mind, and withal a dealer in realities, as we have 
known him to be, should willingly and consciously give himself 
up to rash castle-building, is an hypothesis which we cannot for 
amoment admit. That fancy — ^insidious fairy as she is — ^might 
not have succeeded in catching him now and then off his guard, 
and practising some of her conjuring tricks on him, we would not 
certify. Antonio was but a man after all, and laboring, to all 
appearance, under an indisposition common to mankind, and 


800 


Doctor Antonio. 


which is said to affect the organs of mental vision. Besides, 
there are hours in life — we denounce among others twilight^i 
treacherous hour — when the best constituted mind is not proof 
against the spell of fond imaginings, and most impossible things 
appear possible, nay, easy. When a man, the paroxysm once 
over, does his best to aid reason to re-assert her predominance, 
he does all that, in our judgment, can reasonably be expected of 
him ; and who can tell but that Antonio’s fits of taciturnity 
and thoughtfulness were the silent workings of a mind bent on 
banishing the deceitful phantoms evoked by Fancy in an evil 
hour I 

But it is time for us to resume our narrative. 

“ Do you know Lord Carnifex ?” asked Antonio of Sir John, 
one evening, after Miss Davenne had retired to her bedroom. 
The query was put in a would-be unconcerned tone, which was 
evidently assumed. 

‘‘Very well,” replied Sir John ; “ he is a distant relation of 
my wife’s family. What of him ?” 

“ I read a paragraph about him and his youngest daughter in 
your paper this afternoon. Here it is,” continued Antonio, 
taking the paper from a table behind him, and handing it to Sir 
John, who read aloud : — 

'■'■Romance in High Life . — We entertained our readers not long ago 
with the account of a silly scene enacted at Florence, and in which Miss 
Fanny Carnifex, youngest daughter of the noble lord of that name, and a 
young Roman painter, played the principal parts. The scene we related 
has lengthened into a two-act comedy, and just as Lydia Languish would 
hare wished, in this case there has been an elopement after all. As the 
matter is now one of public notoriety, we have no hesitation in giving aU 
iJie names concerned at full length. According to our informant, the 
»iero, Marini, a handsome young fellow, scarcely two-and-twenty, Is of a 

spectable bourgeois family, and considered a rising artist. It seems 
that he was Miss Fanny’s drawing-master, and took advantage oi the 
opportimity thus afforded him to win his pupil’s affections.” 


The Doctor Pledges Himself. 


30i 


“The in^udent sc::uudrel parenthesized Sir John. 

“ One mommg, the love’-stricken pair burst in on the young lady’s noble 
parent while in his dressing-room, and kneeling down before him, implored 
his consent to their union. The upshot of this step may be foreseen. 
Marini was sans fagon turned out of doors, and Miss Fanny consigned at 
once to the care of her maternal aunt, Lady Biribi, who cairied the fair 
culprit oflf to Rome. Here closes that first act, of which we. gave an 
account already. The sequel may be told in a few words. Eluding the 
strictest vigilance. Miss Fanny succeeded in joining her rash young lover, 
who had followed her to Rome. This deplorable denoument has created a 
painful excitement throughout the English colony at Rome and Florence. 
The noble lord, we are assured, has taken no steps whatever with regard 
to the fugitives, and is fully determined to leave his daughter to her 
fate.” 

“ Serve her right !” exclaimed Sir John, crumpling the paper 
with hands that trembled with emotion. “ If I were her father 
she would never see a shilling of mine. Let them starve. I 
know him well. By God I I would never speak to him if he 

were to have anything to do with the ” The last word was 

inaudible, as the baronet rose, and began angrily striding up and 
down the room. 

“ What good purpose can all such anger answer now said 
Antonio, quietly. 

“ Give a warning to all silly minxes, sir, disposed to disgrace 
their family,” retorted Sir John, impetuously. 

The doctor ventured to observe in a conciliating voice, 
Luckily the young man seems respectably connected.” 

*<]) — - such respectability I” roared Sir John. “A fellow 
littlo better than a beggar, living on his pencils and wits.” 

“ Michael Angelo and Raphael lived on their pencils and thebr 
wits,” remonstrated Antonio, beginning to feel chafed. 

“ Welcome to do so,” replied the Englishman. “ I would 
hare given my daughter to neither of them for all that ” 


302 


Doctor Antonio. 


A shar|i repartee quivered on Antonio’s lips, but he gulped it 
down. 

“ The consummate rascal 1” went on the baronet, with renewed 
fury. “ Ard to think that not one Englishman among the whole 
set had spirit enough to blow the fellow’s brains out. It’s 
enough to make one disown one’s country I” 

“ Come, come, Sir John,” said Antonio, good-naturedly, “you 
must not be so severe. Love and two-and-twenty is a terribly 
intoxicating draught.” 

. “ Love 1” laughed the baronet, contemptuously. Nonsense; 
it was the girl’s pounds, shillings, and pence, that the cold- 
blooded villain wanted. They only marry for money, these — a — 
confounded Italian adventurers.” 

The Italian grew scarlet, and bit his lip. Perhaps the English- 
man noticed this, or perhaps it was only the sound of his own 
words that sobered him. He paused for a second in front of 
Antonio, who, his arms foldc^d over his breast, stood leaning 
against the piano ; then, moved by a sudden impalse. Sir John 
stretched out his hand and said, with noble siiu’plicity, “ Very 
wrong of me to wound your feelings. Pray forgive me. I did 
not mean it. That odious story quite got the ratter of me. I 
confess I have an unconquerable aversion k, marriages with 
foreigners. Don’t let us speak any mcr- the subject. And 
now, are you for a game ?” 

Antonio was for a game, and they .^at down to it ; but Sir 
John was so distrait that his oppo’^ent had to take all imaginable 
pains to make him win. it was near midnight when the doctor 
issued from the little garden gate ; instead of turning to the 
right to gain the highroad to Bordighera, he took to the left, 
down the iane towards the sea, and began walking up and down 
the beach. His step, though slower than usual, gave no evi- 
dence of overwrought feelings, nor did his countenance, to which 
the pale moonshine that fell on it imparted an expresaiou of 


The Doctor Pledges Himself 


rj»lm solemnity. He walked thus for a considerable time, then 
lay down at full length, his face upturned to the heavens. The 
grey light of breaking day found him in the same posture. He 
then rose, and, as if summing up the result of his long reverie, 
said aloud, “ What matters it, after all, whether a man is happy 
or unhappy, so that he sees his duty and abides by it ? So now, 
Viva r Italia ! my first and my last love 1” and he bent his way 
homewards. 

From that day all fits of moodiness or taciturnity were at an 
end, and the gentle current of serene good sense and quiet 
humor, which gave such a charm to the Italian's manner, flowed 
on rich and equable as when we first made his acquaintance 
Had that night of solemn thought conquered the struggle within, 
or only ministered to the combatant sufficient strength to con* 
trol and keep down its outward manifestation ? Was Antonio, 
in the solitude of his own dwelling, as much master of himself, 
as composed, even cheerful, as he was at the Osteria, in Lucy' 
prince ? We leave it a secret between the well-meaniig cr«a- 
tara and his Creator 


304 


Doctor Antonio 


Chapter XIX. 

The Idyl at a close. 

It one of those hot sultry days in the month of AagIl3t^ 
JO trying to the nerves of sensitive people, and during which, 
Nature, as it were, herself exhausted, seems to come to a stand- 
still. Shooting through a thin veil of white clouds, as through 
a burning-glass, the rays of the sun poured down upon the earth 
volumes of heavy malignant heat. No leaf stirred, no bird was 
singing, the very cicadas had suspended their shrill chirp. The 
only sound that occasionally broke the ominous stillness was 
the plaintive cry of the cuckoo calling to its mate. 

Lucy had tried drawing, gardening, practising, sleeping, al] 
with no success, and now lay panting on a sofa. “ Here you are 
at last I” said she, as Doctor Antonio walked in ; “ I have been 
longing for you these two hours. I feel so ill.” 

“ Indeed I” exclaimed Antonio, turning white, “ what is the 
matter with you ? I met Sir John on his way to the count^s, 
not an hour ago, and he never breathed a syllable about your 
being unwell.” 

“ I said nothing about the matter to papa,” answered Lucy ; 
“ ne is uneasy enough already, at not having heard from Aubrey 

“ You mean your brother ?” 

Yes ; Aubrey was to write by the Indian mail which we see 
has arrived, and without bringing any letter from him.” 


The Idyl at a Close. 


SOi 


I am very sorry for that,” said Antonio. “ But tell me all 
tfcbout yourself. You have not been coughing, have you 

“ No ; but I feel very uncomfortable — so faint — so oppressed 
— so hot.” 

“No wonder. Everybody suffers more or less from this 
weather. Let me feel your pulse — there is no fever. It is this 
sonfounded sirocco that tells on your nerves. Now, just lie 
down again quietly,” and he arranged the pillows under her 
head, and I will try to make you more comfortable. “ Miss 
Hutchins,” he added, walking away, “ will you make a glass of 
strong lemonade for Miss Davenne ? — the juice of two lemons in 
half a tumbler of water — ^lukewarm water, if you please.” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, in the most mellifluous 
voice at her command. Miss Hutchins, be it known, was quite 
conquered ; a hard conquest, but Antonio had achieved it. The 
once stiff abigail now courted his notice, and prided herself or 
carrying out his directions. 

Presently Antonio re-appeared, followed by Sperahza, both of 
them looking like Jacks in the green on a May morning, or hke 
a bit of Birnam-wood, from the quantity of cut boughs they were 
carrying. They spread them all over the floor, then Rosa bring- 
ing in a watering-pot, the doctor watered the branches several 
times, saying, “ This will soon cool us, provided we let in no air 
from the furnace without.” He shut up the glass door, and let 
down the green curtain over it so as to create a twilight. “ Do 
you like your lemonade ?” he asked, as Lucy put down her glass. 

“ Yery much, it is so refreshing.” 

“ Do you feel inclined to go to sleep ?” 

“ No,” said Lucy ; “ are you gcing ?” 

“ Not unless you feel sleepy. You do not ? Yery well 
Shall I read to you?” continued Antonio, going to the book 
shelves near the piano, and coming back with a book — “shall ^ 
read something from your favorite poet, Giusti ?” 


806 


Doctor Antonio. 


“What a clever man you are said Lucy, instead of answer 
mg the question. “ I feel better already. What is to become 

of me when you are no long ” the rest of the phrase was lost 

An a burst of tears. 

Poor Antonio stood still with the book in his hand, and large 
tears in his eyes, within an ace of crying also. Fortunately for 
ftim, something stuck in his throat at this moment, and necessi- 
tated his clearing it violently. Having by this means recovered 
his voice, he said, “ See how nervous you are — you weep without 
the least cause, as if you were going away to-morrow. Don’t 
you know the Italian proverb : — ‘Frendi tempo e camper ai V ” 
His tone was that of a mother chiding her pet child. There 
ensued a pause, during which, Lucy by degrees, recovered f'-om 
her emotion. 

“ Doctor,” said she, all at once, “ do you believe in presenti- 
ments ?” 

“Not a bit,” replied Antonio, briskly; “I believe in the 
sirocco.” 

“ You are wrong, then,” said Lucy, gravely. “ Did you not 
tell me once of sensitive plants which foretold storms ? Well, I 
am one of them. I am sure that some misfortune is about tc 
happen to me. I feel it in the air.” 

“You feel the treacherous south wind, that is what you feel. 
A shower of rain will put your discomfort and presentiments all 
to flight.” 

Lucy shook her head incredulously, then said, “ Will you read 
to me ? Anything you choose.” 

“ Let us try ‘ II Brindisi di Don Girella.’ It is so droll, it will 
make you laugh;’ and carrying a chair close to the glass-door, in 
order to profit by the little light that stole in through it, he 
began reading. 

We have reasons of our own for particularizing as minutely 
as possible the details of this domestic scene, and the position. 


The Idyl at a Close. 


307 


with regard to each other, of reader and listener. A little to 
the right oi the glass-door, at some five or six paces from it, 
stood sideways the sofa on which Lucy was lying, her face 
towards the light. She had on a white muslin gown with a blue 
sash : her broad-brimmed straw-hat was hanging by its blue 
ribbons on a corner of the back of the sofa, just over her head. 
Miss Hutchins, her arms crossed before her, sat at the large table 
in the centre of the room, busily engaged in trying to swallow 
a series of obstinate yawns, that would not be suppressed. 
Opposite to Lucy, that is, to the left of the glass-door, but so 
close to it that the green curtain touched his book, was seated 
Antonio. 

Well, the reading had been going on for some time, and more 
than once had the condensed vis comica of the inimitable poet 
brought a faint smile on Lucy’s pale face. By degrees, however, 
her perception of the author’s meaning became fainter and 
fainter, and the rich melodious voice of the reader, soothing her 
like the murmuring of a brook, lulled the sweet girl into that 
state, which is not yet sleep, yet neither is it waking, but a 
voluptuous compound of the two. All on a sudden a heavy 
footstep is heard coming up the stairs — Lucy started up — “ Who 
can that be ?” faltered she, with a shudder. At the same 
instant the glass-door is flung open with a crash, a colossal figure 
stalks in noisily, and, “Holloa, Lucy, my girl,” roars out a 
voice like thunder, as the living tower stoops down to kiss the 
prostrate form. “ Here you are at last ! Heyday I what is 
all this ? By Jove I with your green boughs and watering-pots, 
you look as pastoral as one of the shepherdesses in a ballet. 
Une chaumiere d ton cocur. Ah I ah 1 nothing is wanting to the 

Idyl, as they used to say at Eton ; d it, not even the 

shepherd I” 

“ Aubrey 1” cried Lucy, in a tone of reproach, but could say 
no more The oath and witty sally, we need scarcely remark.. 


808 


Doctor Antonio. 


were aimed at our friend the doctor. Antonio had received 
such a violent slap from the door, when Aubrey entered, as to be 
nearly felled to the ground, and in the effort to recover his 
balance his chair was upset. The new comer turned round at 
the noise, saw Antonio, and uttered the silly vapid joke about 
the shepherd. 

The eyes of the two men met in no friendly way. Aubrey^s 
haughty scowl, curled lip, and somewhat aggressive demeanor, 
evinced little good-will to the object of his present scrutiny. 
Antonio’s firm-set lips, ashy-pale countenance, and collected look 
of self-defence, gave evidence of his scenting the near approach 
of a foe. Thus they stood, confronting each other, types of two 
fine races, two such as even Greece and Rome had seldom seen 
the like ; the one, fair, rosy, blue-eyed (Lucy’s very eyes 1) the 
other, dark as a tempest ; the Englishman taller by nearly a 
head than his tall antagonist, square-chested, broad-shouldered 
in proportion, the very ne jplus ultra of muscular development 
and strength ; the Italian, less bulky, but as firmly knit, springy, 
and supple as a tiger, with iron nerves and sinews, ready ser- 
vants of the indomitable will betrayed in the sombre fire of his 
eyes. God grant that they may never meet in anger, for theirs 
will be like the meeting of two thunder-clouds I 

This mutual survey did not last ten seconds, but even that 
time sufficed to develope between the two a strong feeling of 
antipathy. Lucy, woman-like, divined it, and her increasing 
terror loosened her tongue. “ My brother. Captain Davenne — 
Doctor Antonio, my doctor — papa’s best friend.” The words 
broke the spell. Captain Davenne bowed slightly, as did Doctor 
Antonio. A parting recommendation to Lucy to keep quiet, and 
to go to bed early if she did not feel better in the evening, and 
the doctor withdrew. 

Aubrey began kicking about in the most uproarious mannei 
all the chairs and arm-chairs that were in the room — every fresh 


The Idyl at a Close. 


809 


kick eliciting a fresh start from Lucy — till, at last, hanng dis- 
posed them somewhat symmetrically by the side of the sofa, he 
stretched his ponderous limbs on this extempore couch, talking 
loudly all the w'hile. Lucy was thus made aware, between one 
kick and the other, of the string of lucky circumstances which 
had procured for her so unexpectedly the blessing of her 
brother’s company. They were briefly these. The invalid 
brother officer, whose duties had devolved upon Aubrey, recover- 
ing more rapidly than had been anticipated, Captain Davenne 
had, in consequence, been enabled to sail by the very Indian 
mail, the arrival of which, without a letter from him, had caused 
Sir John’s uneasiness in the morning. What was the use of 
writing, when he should reach England at the same time as his 
letter ? In London he had met Tom Carnifex — eldest son of 
Lord Carnifex — who had just received a hasty summons from his 
father to join him at Florence as quickly as he could. Tom had 
offered Aubrey a place in his britschka ; Aubrey had accepted 
it, and here he was. Of the stranger he had found in his sister’s 
company, of the pleasant or unpleasant impression made on him 
by the sight, not a single word. 

Who so surprised and happy and elated as Sir John, when, on 
entering the room soon after, the first thing his eyes fell upon 
was his long-missed treasure, Aubrey, seated by the side of his 
sister ? Sir John would, had his sense of decorum permitted, 
have done foolish things. How proudly and fondly he gazed on 
“ the boy,” as he called him ! Truth to say, Aubrey’s Herculean 
proportions and handsome features must have excited the admira- 
tion of a more impartial judge than his father. The baronet’s 
eager inquiries immediately brought forth a second edition of 
A ubrey’s statements just related, and then began between father 
and son a brisk fire of queries and answers, like hammers plying 
in quick succession on an anvil. No wonder they had much to 
say to one another, considering their ten years’ separation 


310 


Doctor Antonio. 


They rattled on uninterruptedlj , until John Ducket’s advei^t t6 
lay the cloth for dinner put an end to their effusions. Captain 
Davenne complimented John on his good looks, an honor which 
spread on John’s grave face a grin of intense complacency. The 
two gentlemen then adjourned to Sir John’s own room, from 
whence they were shortly after summoned forth by the announce- 
ment that dinner was on the table. Aubrey ate and drank 
enough for two, and as he ate and drank, his praises of the fare 
the wines, the situation, rendered still more impressive by sundry 
oaths and tremendous peals of laughter, which made plates, 
glasses, decanters, and the very glass-door, ring again, grew 
louder and louder. 

“By-the-by, my dear boy,” said the baronet, **at what inn 
did Carnifex leave you ?” 

** At none,” was the answer. “ I left my portmanteau at a 
kind of pot-house, where he changed horses. I say, John, you 
must go there after dinner and have my portmanteau brought 
here.” 

“ I am afraid,” said Sir John, “ that there is no room for 
you here ; it is a mere nut shell ; there is not a hole to spare, I 
know.” 

“ Never mind,” retorted Aubrey, “ d la guerre commt a la 
guerre. I can sleep on the sofa, or on the ground, anywhere. 
Here I am, and here I mean to stay, for I suppose you won’t 
turn me out by force.” 

This being Aubrey’s ultimatum, from which it was clear that 
no reasons, however good, would divert him, a short consultation 
ensued between Sir John and John Ducket, the upshot of whk!h 
was, that John should manage to find a resting-place for him- 
self where he could, and that his room should be made as com- 
fortable as possible for his young master. To be of service tc 
Aubrey, J ohn would have willingly slept in the fields. 

Dinner over, Captain Davenne, to Sir John’s great amaze 


The Idyl at a Close. 


311 


id consternation, lighted an enormous cigar. ‘ First rate 
cigars ' said he, puffing away ; “ I hope you donH dislike the 
smell, Lucy ; I know my father doesn’t.” Lucy protested she 
had E l objection to it — she rather liked it than not. Now, the 
truth was that she could not bear it. What was it that forced 
from her an assertion so little consonant with the truth ? Lucy, 
almost unconsciously, felt a sort of necessity to humor her 
brother. Poor, timid, weak Lucy I How many of thy sisters 
have I seen, as candid and artless as thou art, sin in a like and 
worse way, to propitiate such bears as this brother of thine ! 
For all whiih sins, let us hope, not the weak sensitive things 
will be called to an account some day, but the blustering, over- 
bearing rulers, in whose violence the sins originated. 

Sir John neither openly admitted nor contradicted Aubrey’s 
declaration as to himself ; it might be he did not feel sure how a 
flat denial on his part would be received, or it might be that he 
chose, on that first day of re-union, to be indulgent. He only 
prudently proposed a leoet m masse to the garden, where they 
would have coffee. The usual hour for Antonio’s evening call 
was now pa^it, and no Antonio had appeared. “ I hope the 
doctor is not going to give us the slip,” said Sir John, after he 
had consulted his watch two or three times. “ My son’s com- 
pany is no good reason why I should not have my friend’s also. 
I wish you very much to make his acquaintance, Aubrey — as 
nice a man this Doctor Antonio as you could meet anywhere- - 
quite a gentleman : we are under infinite obligations to him.” 
And then Sir John told his son all over again the story of the 
overturn, and the Italian’s timely help, already related in sundry 
letters to India ; and, warming with the subject, the baronet 
went on to enlarge on all the unremitting attention Antonio had 
paid to Lucy, an(f how ingeniously he had contrived to amuse 
her during her col inement to the house. The lending of books, 
the lectures or any, the lessons on the guitar, were all set 


812 


Doctor Antonio. 


forth, the catalogue winding up with that stupendous master 
stroke, the easy chair invented by the doctor. To all of which 
discourse, Aubrey listened with an attention quite edifying, and 
an appearance of great gratification — a gratification made more 
evident as he watched the pleasure the details afforded to hii 
darling sister, on whose glowing countenance the sympathising 
brother’s eye rested all the while. 

“ I long to shake hands with this phoenix of doctors,” said 
Aubrey, ** and apologize for my rudeness. I suppose it was he I 
found here this morning ?” 

“ Yes,” said Lucy. 

What do you say,” continued Aubrey, speaking to Sir John 
but looking at his sister, ‘‘ to our going and laying violent hands 
on this forgetful friend of yours, and dragging him captive here ? 
—ha I ha 1 ha I” 

“ Ah, do I” said Lucy, with sparkling eyes, and inwardly call 
mg herself all sorts of names for having so unkindly misjudged 
her brother. Sir John agreeing immediately to the proposal, 
Captain Davonne lit a fresh cigar^ and out they sallied. As they 
passed through the garden gate, Aubrey was seized by a violent 
fit of laughing. “ What are you laughing at ?” asked Sir John, 
perplexed. 

“ Why, this is such a devilish queer house — such a wrong-sided 
look about it. I would give something to carry it bodily to Lon 
don, and show it at a shilling a-head. I bet something no 
would credit that Sir John and Miss Davenne had lived con- 
tentedly weeks in it. I verily believe Rutchins and Jonn have 
forgotten what a decent room is like.” 

Sir John felt his son’s words as a personal reproach He hung 
his head. 

Apropos de (Aubrey had been in love with a French 

actress at Madras, ana spoke French fluently, and liked to show 
that lie did), “ the old duke of B asked after you.” 


The Idyl at a Close. 


313 


‘‘Very kind of him,” said the baronet, his features expanding. 
“ How is the old gentleman ?” 

“ As fresh as ever,” said Aubrey ; “ he wondered what had 
become of you. Indeed, everybody does ; Lady Deloraine most 

of all, at whose house I met the ian ambassadress and her 

daughter-in-law, Lady Charlotte Tuicy, both of them full of sus- 
picions about your absence, and willing to join in any conspiracy 
for carrying you off by force from your mysterious hiding-place.” 

“God forbid they should put their threat in execution I” said 
the baronet, chuckling. “ But, talking of carrying off, have you 
heard of that pretty business of Fanny Carnifex’s elop” 

“ Blast the cowardly Italian beggar I” yelled out Aubrey. 
“ I have heard all about it.” 

“Are they — married at least?” asked Sir John, with aa 
effort. 

“ They are ; but it is a matrimonial alliance that won’t last 
long. Fanny will soon be a jolly widow, I can tell her.” 

“How do you mean?” inquired Sir John, surprised. Aubrey 
stopped short, slowly raised his right arm, held it out as if taking 
aim, and, with a clack of his tongue, imitated the report of a 
pistol. “ Tom Carnifex is one of the best shots in England, my 
dear sir,” said he, carelessly, by way of explanation. 

The acting of this little scene was so splendidly natural, there 
was in the look of the performer something so savage, that Sir 
John could not help a shudder. However desirable it might 
have once seemed to him that the offender should be made an 
example of, it was no part of Sir John’s programme of to-day to 
be present at the execution. 

Engrossed by such pleasant converse and anticipations, the 
2hief of the Davenne dynasty, and his heir, had come in sight of 
Doctor Antonio’s poor dwelling, just as its tenant, in ho very 
pleasant mood, was issuing from the door. Antonio was little 
prepared for the present warm greeting from the surly stranger 

14 


814 


Doctor Antonio. 


of a few hours back, who now, shaking him heartily by the ttand, 
made a sort of laughing apology for having been so uncere- 
monious in the morning. Though rather taken by surprise, the 
Italian returned Aubrey’s advances in as kindly a spii’it as he 
could summon on such short notice ; and the three, Antonio in 
the middle, walked back to the Osteria, where they found the 
count, between whom and young Davenne an introduction in due 
form took place. The evening passed, if not as quietly as usual, 
not the less agreeably, perhaps, for being rather noisy. Captain 
Davenne was in the most communicative of humors, and rattled 
away famously, laughing a good deal at his own jokes and stories, 
drinking freely all the while of what he called lemonade ; and so 
it was, only with a strong infusion of old Jamaica rum. Some 
of his tiger-hunting adventures, which he told with great spirit, 
were listened to with thrilling interest, — Antonio translating for 
the count, who had learnt about as much English as Sir John 
had Italian. Lucy retired early, but not before she had seen a 
real good will and friendship springing up between her brother 
and her doctor and friend. Let us hope that she slept well, poor 
girl. As ten struck. Sir John and Antonio, according to habit, 
sat down to their game of chess, which was on the baronet’s part 
a series of continual blunders. His thoughts were otherwise 
engaged. 

When Lucy, about eight next morning, after her early bath, 
and one or two hours of additional rest, crossed the ante-room 
on her way out, she found her brother already installed on the 
sofa, and yawning violently. “ Where are you going ?” asked 
Aubrey. 

“ To water my flowers. I have a nice little garden of my 
own ; come and look at it.” Aubrey raised his long length, 
went, looked at it, and admired it. The garden was not hei 
own making, was it ? Oh, no I Speranza had made it. Spe- 
ranza, the landlady’s daughter, a very nice girl. Dooto? 


The Idyl at a Close. 316 

Antonio had given Lucy most of the plants “Are they not 
beautiful ?” 

“Very,” said Aubrey, adding, “do you know, Lucy, I am 
quite in love with that doctor of yours ?” 

“ Are you said Lucy, looking up at him with such beaming 
eyes, 

“ I have seldom seen a more commanding figure than his, and 
he is very gentleman-like, certainly. I wish he were an English 
duke." 

“ Why said Lucy. I assure you he is quite c(>ntented with 
his lot.” 

“ Because if he were, young lady, you would make a handsome 
couple.” Lucy grew scarlet. “As it is,” pursued Aubrey, 
slowly, in a clear, cruel, stern voice, “ as it is, I would rather 
see you dead and buried than married to that man.” 

The little watering-pot slipped out of her hand, and her knees 
gave way. 

“P it I” cried Aubrey, raising her from the ground, 

“ you needn’t take fright at a mere supposition I” and without 
another word, he passed his powerful arm round his sister’s 
waist and led her up the stairs to the sofa. This was the first 
and the last time that Antonio’s name was mentioned between 
them. 

The doctor called, as was his wont, during the morning, but 
instead of his usual warm recognition from Lucy, he received a 
silent bow. Her cheeks were dreadfully pale, her eyes red. He 
inquired about her health, and got a hurried answer that she 
was very well. He would have felt her pulse — there was no 
need she assured him, she was very comfortable. When he 
stooped over her shoulder to examine her drawing, she recol- 
lected that she had left a brush in her room, which was indis- 
pensable at that moment, and got up to fetch it. There was a 
constraint about poor Lucy, which Antonie had never seen. His 


S16 


Doctor Antonia 


heart contracted painfully. That Aubrey was the cause of the 
Bweet girPs altered looks and manner, Antonio had not the least 
doubt ; but how and why ? Was he, Antonio, in any way com 
nected with this new state of things ? To solve the mystery he 
would have willingly shed his blood. Oh I for ten seconds alone 
with her, but ten, to ask one question, receive one answer. He 
loitered longer than he generally did, to take advantage of a 
possible chance. In vain. There stood between him and her a 
moving Chinese wall. 

Four days passed without the situation mending. Aubrey had 
taken such a fancy to the wretched Osteria that neither the 
count’s pressing invitations, nor his father’s exhortations to take 
his horse and go and enjoy the fine scenery, could prevail upon 
the colossal dragoon to leave its precincts for a moment unless 
Lucy did, which was commonly the case in the evening, when he 
would put her arm under his and fondly support her steps. All 
the rest of the day, from seven in the morning to eleven at night, 
Aubrey would spend in-doors, most of the time stretched at full 
length, smoking and indulging in his favorite beverage, or shak- 
ing the poor inn with his ponderous strides. His most gracious 
smile and heartiest squeeze of the hand was for Antonio, to whom 
he had taken such a liking, that for nothing in the world would 
Aubrey have missed a minute of his new friend’s company. A 
boisterous, rather vulgar, lively, good-tempered companionable 
fellow, this young Davenne, easily satisfied with everything and 
every body, making light of the inconveniences of his far from 
comfortable room down stairs, never hinting by word or look at 
any the least wish on his part to leave his present quarters. His 
conversation with Sir John turned almost exclusively, it is true, 
on London (the London we mean, whose existence is acknow- 
ledged by people of rank and fashion), London gaities, the illus- 
trious relatives and acquaintances of the Davenne family, on the 
general regret at the baronet’s prolonged absence, and so on 


The Idyl at a Close. 


317 


Bat nine times out of ten it was Sir John himself who broached 
the subject : and then, was it n®t natural and proper for a duti- 
ful son to dwell on such topics as were palpably the most agree 
able to his father ? 

Meanwhile the healthy bloom was fading fast from Lucy^s 
cheek, and her head drooped like a lily deprived of sunshine. It 
was not enough that Lucy was to be weaned all at once from the 
joys and benefits of the friendly intercourse which habit had 
made a sweet necessity to her, but she had to wear a mask 
and act a part too, cruelly at variance with her feelings. Why 
she was compelled to do so, she scarcely knew, but a mysterious 
warning from within told her that only at such a cost might 
something awful be averted. Her heart was full of strange mis- 
givings and fears. Aubrey^s show of friendship to Antonio, far 
from reassuring her, added to her uneasiness. It wms clear, even 
to her inexperienced eye, that all that extreme good-will was 
assumed, a mere display, and being so, what could be Aubrey’s 
motive ? And the saddened girl brooded, till her head grew 
giddy, over the hostility of the two young men’s first meeting, 
the significant hint given to her on the morrow, and Aubrey’s 
sudden change of manner. 

Ho pleasant early associations connected with the boy came 
to counteract the painful impressions aroused by the full-grown 
man. Aubrey, be it remembered, had spent his boyhood at 
Eton, and of his holidays Lucy recalled nttle, excepting her 
terrors for her doll, and for a favorite kitten it had been his 
delight to torment. But there was no want of clearness in her 
perceptions with regard to his six months’ stay at home, previous 
to his entering the army. The almost daily quarrels between 
father and son, her mother a]l in tears, the gloom that pervaded 
the family, Aubrey’s angry scowl, and something worse in return 
for her childish attempts at conciliation (she was scarcely ten 
vears old at the time), and the fear in which she stood of him ; 


31 « 


Doctor Antinio. 


such were Liicy^s sole recollections, such the images and feelingt 
linked in her memory with that brother of hers. Intervening 
years had softened, but not obliterated, these impressions, and 
the Aubrey that, to the day of his arrival, figured in his sister^s 
mini, was anything but the type of youthful dutifulness and 
affection. What she had now seen of him brought the convio 
tion home to her, that the man had kept the promise of the boy. 
Lucy, from the first, had felt afraid of him. His boisterous ways 
and overbearing manners, his frequent oaths and coarse mirth, 
told cruelly on her nerves, and wounded all the sympathies of 
her refined nature. Delicate, sensitive organizations, like Lucy’s, 
have an inborn horror of violence in any shape ; it is with them 
a dissolving element, something incompatible with their being, 
from which they shrink as instinctively as those plants to which 
Miss Davenne had likened herself in her last conversation with 
Doctor Antonio — shrink from the touch of a hand. On these 
grounds alone would the pressure of Aubrey’s presence have been 
too much for Lucy. How incomparably more so when fancy 
obscurely hinted at the possible bursting of that violence of 
which she stood in such awe, in a direction where much of her 
grateful affection and reverence lay I 

On the fourth day from his son’s arrival. Sir John gave a 
farewell dinner, and announced to the small but select party, the 
count, the mayor. Doctor Antonio, &c., that his departure was 
fixed for the day after the next. Aubrey might watch his sister 
as much as he pleased, Lucy did not wince. Indeed, her 
misery was such that she felt almost relieved by the announce- 
ment. 

So that she may but say, “ Thank you, Doctor Antonio, God 
bless you and your country,” — so that she may but say this to 
him freely, as her heart prompts, without restraint, with nc 
eye upon her, Lucy will depart in peace. This thought is ever 
V permost in her mind ; nay, she has no thought but this one 


The Idyl at a Close. 


319 


vhich presses on her temples like a crown of thorns, to thank 
and bless him. It wonld look so unfeeling not to do so. This 
man has been all forbearance, all gentleness, all kindness to her. 
What could a friend, a brother, a fath«r, do more than he has 
done for her ? “ Bless you and your country.” She murmurs 

the words to herself, she would fain write them down for him, 
but that they look so cold on paper. He has no idea, she is 
sure, of the depth of her gratitude, of all that she is feeling. 
Fool that she was, not to have let him know, when time was her 
own — when no dark cloud cast its shadow between them, on one 
of those bright mornings frittered away in general conversation 
on the balcony — on one of those moonlit evenings spent by the 
water’s edge, so near, that the silvery wave came creeping 
lovingly to their very feet. Oh, those sweet strolls in the gar- 
den, — those boatings on the blue sea, — that blessed trip to 
Lampedusa I O that she could recall one minute, only one, of 
that past I 

Yain yearnings, vain imaginings I Unrelenting time rolls on, 
the day is come, the very hour of departure is at hand, and 
Lucy has found no opportunity of unburdening her heart. She 
sits on her invalid chair, looking vacantly before her, as though 
in a dream ; Aubrey and Antonio stand in the balcony and dis- 
cuss the English policy in India, Antonio with a very pale face 
and unwonted animation of manner ; Sir John paces the room, 
meditating a farewell speech, casting now and then a disconso- 
late glance at his daughter ; Hutchins is bustling up and down, 
in and out, in a state of flurry and excitement ; John Ducket 
left for Nice in the morning, to make room for the captain in the 
rumble ; and poor Hutchins has been working for two. She 
announces that the horses are to the carriage. “ Now, Lucy,” 
says the baronet, encouragingly. Aubrey is already at his sis- 
ter’s side, and helps her to rise ; Hutchins has noticed a small 
basket hanging on l.ucy’s arm, and offers to carry it for her 


82C 


Doctor Antonio. 


Lucy draws it back hurriedly, and frowns on her maid— -a hanfl 
ful of poor, withered, almost colorless flowers, once so blue — such 
is the treasure she clings to so closely. 

As Sir John and the doctor go down the steps, followed by 
Aubrey and Miss Davenne, a number of persons assembled in the 
garden take off their hats and caps and wave them in the air. 
Sir John’s tongue cleaves to his palate, and he gives up his 
speech. He even thinks it prudent to proceed to the shaking of 
hands in silence. Those who choose to kiss his hand, Prospero, 
his younger brother, their aged mother, all are free to do so now. 
Sir John offers no resistance. Meanwhile, Aubrey hurries Lucy 
on to the little gate where the carriage is waiting. Rosa and 
Speranza, and, a little in the rear, Battista, are crying like foun- 
tains. Lucy returns half unconsciously the warm caresses of the 
two women, who kiss her hands and clothes, and cling desper- 
ately to their young benefactress, until Aubrey, with an cath, 
jerks her into the carriage. Antonio helps the baronet in. 

Pleasant journey. Sir John ; huon viaggio, Signorina, take care 
of yourself.” The Signorina does not say a word — does not 
smile, does not bow, but stares at the kind face — the kind face 
that dares not even smile, alas 1 for it feels the evil eye resting 
on it. A clack from the postilion, a shout from the assembled 
bystanders, “Buon viaggio, U Signore gli accompagni,’’ the pon- 
derous machine rolls up the lane, and the kind face disappears. 
Lucy arouses from her trance — “ Papa, are we going V’ and she 
bursts into a passion of tears. It was like the giving way of a 
dam in a river. Papa fairly gives way too, hugs the suffering 
child to his bosom, and father and daughter mingle their tears. 
While this passes within, Aubrey, in the rumble, lights a fresh 
cigar from the one he had been smoking. 

Those left behind stood on the highway watching the fast* 
diminishing carriage. They watched till it disappeared. Poor 
Antonio was sick at heart, and would fain throw off his mask 


The Idyl at a Close. 


m 


But no ; — he must listen to the idle Terbiajje of the count and 
the may^'T, who insisted on accompanying him home. He 
'•cached it at last, threw himself upon his bed, and- -man ii bol 
’^xan after all — wept like a child 




Doctor Antonio 


Chapter XX. 

Absence. 

When two persons dearly attached to one another separate^ 
how much more to be pitied is the one who remains than the on© 
who goes I Every old familiar place and object becomes to the 
former a cruel remembrance, out of which rises the image with 
which it is associated. Every hour that passes brings back the 
recollection of some sweet corresponding habit, now, alas i 
broken, and with it fresh yearnings and regrets : while every 
hour that flies, every object that fleets by, the excitement of the 
motion, the incidents, the very annoyances of travelling, create 
for the latter a thousand little diversions, the effect of which can^ 
not but be to divide and lessen the concentration of thought and 
feeling on one given point. 

Lucy was no exception to the rule. It was not her fault 
if the scenery between Bordighera and Nice united to its charac- 
ter of loveliness one of grandeur — if the road often climbed to 
aerial heights — if the towns below were so picturesquely grouped 
— if the indentations of the coast proved so capricious, and 
opened at every turn new and bold prospects. It was not her 
fault if she had eyes, and through them received impressions. 
We do not mean to say by this that the agony of separation did 
not continue to throb in her bosom ; that her thoughts did not 
impetuously rush back, clinging round the friend she had left 


Absence. 


323 


that she did not feel desolate and miserable. We only mean to 
»y, that the novelty and variety of external things and incidents 
forced themselves upon her notice, and mingled with the main 
current of her thoughts and feelings. 

At Nice, which was their first halting-place, the Davennes met 
a family-one of the elect few whom Sir John could condescend 
to acknowledge, such as England only can send forth, consisting 
of a father and mother, young still, with a train of from twelve 
to fifteen sons and daughters. The female members of this 
family, seven in number, pounced upon Lucy, and took possession 
of her. She had to visit, under their guidance, all the remai’k 
able places in the town and its environs — to join in pic-nics 
ostensibly got up for her — to go to a dilettanti French play, a 
professional concert, and to hear a celebrated improvisatore — all 
of which occupations and amusements, compressed within three 
days she spent at Nice, left our poor heroine but little leisure 
time to devote to tender regrets. 

At Paris, where, according to his - old programme. Sir John 
made a sojourn of a month, what with official sight-seeing of the 
Louvre, Luxembourg, the Palais-Royal, Versailles, St. Cloud, Fon- 
tainbleau, etc. etc., — the indispensable daily drive in the Champs 
Elysdes and the Bois de Boulogne, — the trying on of innumerable 
new dresses and bonnets, — the theatres, soirees at the embassy, 
going to parties, and giving parties, — and last, not least, morning 
visits among the English in Paris, life was a race indeed, — with- 
out taking into account a formal presentation at the Tuileries, 
and the honor of a seat along with her father and brother at the 
royal dinner table at Neuilly. Though little partial to the chief 
of the Orleans dynasty, w'hom he could not forgive for being the 
eon of Philippe Egalite of revolutionary memory, and making no 
mystery of his feelings on the subject. Sir John, to use his own 
words, thought proper to yield to the policy of the day, and con- 
sWered it a part of his duty as an Englishman to help on the 


824 


Doctor Antonio 


“ entente cordiale'^ even at some cost to his personal sympathies 
Only fancy a man of Sir John Davenne’s importance going 
through Paris without visiting the chief of State I One^s hair 
stands on end to think of the consequences. 

But her Paris dissipations were rest and peace compared to the 
vortex of visits, breakfasts, dinners, fetes, and balls, in which 
liucy found herself whirling as soon as she set foot in England. 
Not one of the most distant, in point of situation or connection, 
of her numerous relations, or of the numerous circle of friends 
and acquaintances of the family, but insisted on a day at least 
from the fair traveller. Sir John, on his part, once at Davenne, 
made up for lost time by filling his splendid mansion to the very 
unknown garrets, and with Lucy — the cynosure of all eyes — doing 
the honors, had open days, and gave entertainment after enter- 
tainment to half the county. For weeks and months Lucy had 
not a spare moment to herself ; dressing and visiting, visiting and 
dressing, those two great duties and occupations of a young lady 
of high station everywhere, and more especially in England, was 
the order of the day. Unable to resist the current that bore her 
down, what could she do but let herself drift along, half-pleased, 
half-worried ? 

Antonio, in the meantime, do what he would, could think of 
nothing but Lucy. The bright star that had for a moment shone 
above his horizon had long set forever, while still his eyes gazed 
on, riveted on the halo of light it had left behind. It was all the 
same whether he remained brooding in his own dwelling, seated 
on that very easy-chair he had contrived for his cherished patient, 
or whether he went abroad on his usual avocations, there was the 
dear face looking at him out of every corner, haunting him at 
every turn. The little library out of which he had lent hei 
books still warm with the touch of her hand, the flute and guitai 
he had so willingly played for her amusement, the map of Sicily 
he had taken to her when her interest in his country was first 


Absence. 


325 


awakened, the flowers she had given him, religiously preserved,--^ 
all around him was full of her. All seemed to ask, “ where ia 
she ?” If tired of poring over a volume, on which he had use- 
lessly tried t^ fix his attention, Antonio got up and looked out of 
the window; the first thing his eye met was the count^s casino, to 
which he had accompanied her many and many a time, — there 
the rich Italian pine expanded its green canopy under which she 
had sat, when she tried the sketch of the coast towards France, 
— there, glancing in the sun, was the large yellow stone, from 
under which, to Lucy’s great terror, they had seen creep out 
a snake, as big as her little finger, — furthe:- on, at that turning, 
she had stooped to pick up a stray, tiny, white shell, and given it 
to him. 

It was worse still when his preieseion called him to the othei 
side of the promontory. What a crowd of memories rose at the 
sight of t5he old, weather-beaten, dingy-red Osteria, with its cum- 
brous balcony, the little garden, and the pebbly shore I Not a 
foot of ground but was hallowed by some recollection of her. 
There, past that sharp descent of the road, he had seen her for 
the first time, pale death, but so lovely in her paleness that he 
wondered how such a peerless creature could exist on earth. 
There she had smiled on him so sweetly, when he had ordered 
the btcer to be turned round ; there, on the first fold of the hill 
behind the house, one day, at dusk, she had discovered the first 
fire-flies of the season, and screamed v/ith delight. Not a path 
but they had trodden it together, not a flower but they had 
examined it together, not one of Nature’s mysterious sounds— 
from the voice of the ocean to the chirp of a grasshopper — that 
they had not listened to together, not one of the thousand hues 
of sea, or earth, or sky, that they had not admired together I 
Then everybody spoke of her ; Rosa, Speranza, Battista, the 
count the drawing-master, Prospero, his mother, knew of no other 
topic His very patients would inquire of him whether the “ htUa 


326 


Doctor Antonio. 


Signorina'"' was ever likely to come back again. Even tbe 
archins playing in the streets would stop in their game to ask him 
where the '^Inglenna^' was. It seemed so strange, so unnatural, so 
impossible, that she should have passed away from a place so full 
of her, that Antonio would sit for hours, in sight of the Osteria, 
expecting to see her white dress fluttering in the' balcony, or to 
hear her birdlike voice singing one of the Sicilian airs he had 
taught her. At times he got almost angry with himself, and 
determined to shake ofi* this sort of continual obsession ; he tried 
long expeditions on foot under a scorching sun, but to little pur- 
pose. The song of the nightingale in the valley, the scent of 
thyme on a mountain pass, the white outline of some distant vil- 
lage, the tolling of a far-away church-bell, awoke old associations, 
and out of them stole the fairy form, and kept alongside of him. 
Do what he would, struggle as manfully as he might, there was 
no way of ridding himself of it. Antonio was sick at heart. 

Sir John’s acknowledgment of the doctor’s services was at 
once delicate and munificent. On the day after the departure 
of the English family, Prospero, according to the previous 
instructions he had received, presented himself at Antonio’s 
dwelling with a letter and Bufly. The baronet, in a few lines, 
full of feeling, begged Antonio to accept of the cob as a remem- 
brance from one he had lain under many an obligation, and not 
to forget, if ever he made up his mind to go to England, that he 
had there an old friend, who relied on a visit from him, and on 
being allowed to do the honors of his country to the doctor. 
The letter contained a small package of English bank-notes to 
the amount of a hundred pounds, but to these the writer made 
no allusion. Doctor Antonio took from the sum what he consi- 
dered a handsome fee for his services — ten pounds, and handed 
over the rest to the mayor as a gift to the parish from Sir John, 
to be applied as the town-council might deem proper. The 
mayor convoked the town-council at once, who instantly passed 


Absence. 


327 


a yote of thanks to the baronet, and delegated to the mayor the 
business of penning and sending to the generous donor an address 
expressive of the grateful feelings of both parish and council, with 
a copy of the minutes of the meeting annexed. To this address 
and minute Antonio joined a letter of thanks from himself for 
the present of the cob. Two months after there came to the 
mayor a note in answer, of most Spartan laconism. Sir John 
stated most distinctly, that, as he had left no funds for the pur- 
poses indicated in the mayor^s letter, he could accept of no 
thanks, but that, as he was anxious to deserve the good opinion 
expressed, he begged to enclose a draft for a hundred pounds, to 
be devoted to the benefit of the parish. This note, curiously 
enough, brought a wasp^s nest about our friend’s ears. The 
town-council met in a hurry, and summoned Antonio to their 
presence to explain the matter. This the doctor did with the 
ready straightforwardness that was his charactistic. He said, 
that on receiving from Sir John Davenne a sum ten times larger 
than what he considered a sufficient remuneration for his attend- 
ance on that gentleman’s daughter, without any direction or hint 
as to what was to be done with the surplus, the only interpreta- 
tion left, him, and one, too, which he believed in keeping with 
the generous nature of the sender, was that the balance had been 
intended to be used by Doctor Antonio for the benefit of the 
parish, and he himself had judged that through the town-council 
he would be most sure of obtaining that end. 

This explanation was not considered satisfactory, and loud 
complaints were made against the doctor for having compromised 
the dignity of the council. Then followed a long and stormy 
deliberation as to what was to be done. Three members, known 
as the creatures of the curd, and evidently instigated by him, 
urged a vote of censure against Antonio, which motion, however, 
was negatived. A fourth moved that Antonio should be com- 
pelled to explain and apologise to the English gentleman, which 


328 


Doctor Antonio. 


Antonio flatly refused to do. A fifth proposed that the money 
should be sent back to Sir John, but this proposal was unsupported 
by any one. At last, upon the motion of some one more reasonable 
than the rest, it was unanimously agreed upon, that the question 
should be put off till that day six months — a decent manner of 
burying it for ever. From that day a party — headed by the 
curd’s three friends above alluded to — was fornled against Anto- 
nio ; in course of time it was joined by the majority of the 
priests in the town, and by many of the pious women among 
their penitents. The animosity went so far that, a little after, 
the curd falling ill of an indigestion, sent for the doctor of 
Ventimiglia, and placed himself under his care. But not all this 
display of hostility, not all the underhand propaganda of the 
church party, and the charge of imposture laid against Antonio, 
had power to shake his popularity among the peasantry, who, in 
spite of all the efforts made to entangle the question, held fast in 
their homely good sense to the one plain fact, that for their 
benefit Doctor Antonio had eiven up a good round sum of money, 
which he migh^ wJ^out blame fi’om any one, have quietly kept 
in his pockeii 


Eight Years After. 


32 » 


Chapter XXI. 

Eight Years After. 

We beg at this place to use our our privilege of novelist, and 
to leap over a period of no less than eight years at once. If the 
gentle reader will but take into consideration the amount of 
matter, bearing or not upon the subject, with which we might 
have filled up this gap, and the saving of time and patience 
attendant on our expeditious way of getting over the ground, we 
trust he will not grudge us the effort of imagination we impose 
upon him, and even give us some credit for discretion. Hence- 
forth, no sweet allurements will delay us on our road. Farewell 
cool shades and bright hills I Farewell quiet paths strewn with 
flowers, clear rivulets gargling merrily by the wayside I The 
sunny portion of our course is past, and lurid clouds darken that 
which remains. Let ’^urry over it as fast as we can. 

The time is the middis of March, 1848, the scene that same 
road, on which, eight years ago, we first met Lucy and her 
father, and, as then, the principal object on it a travelling- 
carriage, wending its way from the heights of Turbia to the 
sea-girt Mentone far below. An overcast sky, a sea of a leaden 
color, a narrow grey horizon bounded both on land and water b^ 
a hazy sheet of falling rain — such is for the time being the dull 
aspect of the country through which this equipage is passing. 
The olive plantation.^ of hill and valley shiver and shudder under 


330 


Doctor Antonio. 


th« keen gusts of wind that sweep over them, changing in quick 
succession from white to dark, from dark to white, according as 
the swaying breeze turns up the silvery or the deep-green side of 
their leaves. Well may the middle-aged English man-servant in 
the rumble — his nationality is unmistakably written in his florid 
complexion, and in the elaborate curve of his grey-reddish whis- 
kers towards the point of his nose — well may he button up his 
great-coat, and wink half-maliciously, half good-humoredly, at the 
starched female colleague seated by his side, as much as to say, 
“ This, then, is the fine country you told me such wonders about V 
Certainly, the poor beautiful Riviera looked sadly unlike itself 
in this ungenial day ; and a lover of fine scenery would have had 
nothing better to do than shut his eyes and go to sleep. Yet a 
traveller alive to other phenomena than those arising from com- 
binations of form and color, might have discovered, even through 
this murky atmosphere, something to win his interest, and rouse 
his sympathies into active play. More than once had the car- 
riage come up with groups of soldiers gaily plodding through 
mud and mire, and singing songs such as the surrounding moun- 
tains had rarely echoed. The once proscribed name of Italy 
resounded in the choruses, coupled with another — one for a 
moment so full of bright promises, and then so pregnant with 
long disappointment to Italian ears and hearts — the name of 
Pius the Ninth. An unusual air of animation prevailed through- 
out the many small towns and villages scattered along the road, 
or perched above it. In the main streets stood knots of citizens 
of all classes, warmly discussing, in spite of wind and rain, the 
topics of the day ; streamers of every dimension waved over 
roofs, or floated from windows, all alike displaying the Italian 
colors — -white, red, and green ; improvised national guards, with 
nothing of the soldier but the musket, mounted gua-d before the 
flag-decorated town-halls. No doubt of it, the thrice sweet god 
dess, Liberty, had breathed over this land, and, with her warm 


Eight Years After. 333 

breath, stirred up to life the long-dormant populations of the 
Riviera. 

None of these signs of altered times were lost upon the ladv 
inside the carriage, who watched them with an eagerness that 
heightened the hectic spot on each pale cheek, and added tc th( 
ominous lustre of her sunken eyes. With every step of the fast- 
going horses, her interest in everything seemed to increase, and; 
as the carriage drove past Ventimiglia, and the first of a series 
of promontories, projecting in a crescent-shaped cerulean ifne, 
into the sea, began to loom out of the rainy mist, the fair travel- 
ler was so overcome by her feelings, that, laying her hand on her 
side, as if striving to repress the bounding of her heart, she fell 
back on the seat, and gasped for breath. The reader has 
scarcely needed this last circumstance to guess who the lady was. 
Who but our sweet heroine would betray such emotion at the 
sight of Bordigbera ? It was, indeed, Lucy, sadly altered, but 
still beautiful — her rich auburn hair hanging as profusely as ever 
over a forehead as pure and smooth as eight years ago. But 
what sorrow or care, gentle daughter of Albion, has worked 
that net of small horizontal lines between thy temples and eyes ? 
What invidious hand has cut those two deep lines that form an 
angle with each of the corners of thy mouth ? 

Lucy had done what nine hundred and ninety-nine young 
ladies out of a thousand would have done in her case. She had 
married. When Sir John, half in joke, half in earnest, had 
first mooted the question, as to who, among the numerous 
retinue of suitors thronging round the rich young beauty, had 
found grace in her eyes, Lucy, coloring deeply, had declared that 
she had never thought of any such thing, and that her only wish 
was to continue to live as she had done with dear papa. On hear- 
ing which, dear papa had laughingly retorted, that what she said 
was sheer nonsense ; young ladies were born to marry and be 
married. Aubrey, who happened to be present at this con verst 


332 


Doctor Antonio. 


tion, made no remark at the tiue, but a day or so after took an 
opportunity of asking his sister what objection she could possibly 
have to Lord Oleverton. She had no particular objection to the 
viscount, or anybody else, only she was not inclined to marry 
But he, Aubrey, was strongly inclined that she should do so, and 
if within two months from that day she had not made hex choice 
— well, it was for him to guess where the obstacle lay, and to 
take good care to remove it. This was said with the gentleness 
of speech and manner peculiar to Lucy^s brother — that is, with 
flashing eyes and stamping feet. Lucy was not, as the reader 
knows, of that coriaceous stuff of which heroines are made, who 
beard their tyrants and shake their fetters at them — ^in books or 
on the stage. She was a poor, weakly, nervous creature, with 
more in her nature of the reed that bends, than of the oak which 
makes head bravely against the blast. Besides, Captain Da- 
venne^s threat was two-edged. Women, when they fear for 
others, are soon disarmed ; so Miss Davenne made her choice 
within the allotted time, and four months afterwards was mar- 
ried — married without love, but without repugnance — on the 
contrary, with a degree of sympathy, which, properly nurtured 
and cultivated, might and ought to have ripened into a steady 
and lasting affection. 

Lord Oleverton was a man whose attentions and preference 
could not but flatter a girl of Lucy^s warm feelings, even had he 
not been what he professed to be, an enthusiastic admirer of 
Italy. It was, in fact, in Italy that the Honorable Mr. Tyrrel, 
a wild young attachd at Florence, had made his dehut in life, 
and, if fame reported truly, had sown then and there a plentiful 
crop of wild oats. In the midst of a career of thoughtless 
extravagance, unexpectedly called upon, by his father’s death, 
to assume the paternal title and a seat in the Upper House, the 
dashing attache, like another Prince Hal, had turned aside from 
tds follies, and astonished the world by his steady application and 


Eight Yea ’S After. 


383 


ttncommoE aptitude for business. Handsome still, and young 
looking, though full five-and-twenty years older than his bride, 
and quoted as a model of elegance and good taste, Lord Clever- 
ton united to all the brilliant accomplishments of the man of the 
world the more solid attainments of the statesman. No one 
could utter with a better grace those amiable nothings which are 
the current coin of drawing-rooms ; no one, with more cogent 
logic, attack the ministry amid the enthusiastic cheering of the 
opposition benches, on which he sat. Unfortunately, the quali- 
ties that command success in fashionable coteries, or oratorical 
triumphs in political assemblies, do not always secure domestic 
happiness, — not, at least, as our Lucy understood it. She was 
some little time before she found this out, but she did find it out 
at last. 

What did the young viscountess want or miss ? She was like 
a little queen in her new household, her husband her first subject 
— wherever she went, both old and young did her homage — 
grave statesmen put aside their speculations to entertain her with 
those lighter topics proper to interest her age and sex, — cele- 
brated poets sang her beauty, and first-rate painters disputed the 
honor of portraying her lovely features on canvas, — and yet she 
was not happy I What did she care for having her womanly 
vanity fed to satiety, while her heart had cravings which remained 
unsatisfied I 

Lord Cleverton was one of those men whose existence lies 
principally in the head. Ambition was the great passion of his 
nature ; deep, exclusive, all-engrossing attachments, if such 
things were, he regarded in the light of bars to the attainment 
of power, — according to him, the only noble, the only legitimate, 
the only aim worthy of being pursued by man. His respect for 
his young wife was really unbounded, as well as his deference to 
her every wish that did not interfere with his ruling passion. 
He looked on her always with infinite complacency, and whe’ he 


334 


Doc:or Antonio. 


saw her doing the honors of his house to a crowd of distinguished 
guests, with that grace and dignified ease of manner, which won 
her all hearts, gratified pride was his predominant feeling. But 
no warmer sentiment animated his admiration. His great 
interest in life lay elsewhere. Politics occupied most of his time 
What with schemes, meetings, deputations, acting as president 
to societies of every denomination, besides attending the House, 
he was so taken up that Lady Oleverton scarcely saw him for 
weeks together, and then only in company. The world stood 
forever between him and her. No possible privacy with such a 
man, none of those sweet outpourings of the heart, none of those 
refreshing causeries by the fireside, which rouse sympathy into 
affection, and are to affection like the fresh dew of the morning 
to flowers. His cares were not her cares. In vain, at the 
beginning, had she repeatedly sought, on noticing a cloud on his 
brow, to know what caused it, that she might trv to dispel it. 
All her attempts to win his confidence had been gently, and with 
much kindness, but not the less pertinaciously frustrated. His 
motive for this was, he said, his unwillingness to disturb the 
serenity of her life. This reason, she thought, might have held 
good with a stranger ; but was she not his wife, and as such 
entitled to her share of his joys and sorrows ? And so it came 
about that poor Lucy’s heart shrunk and withered, and felt more 
lonely every day, This was not the work of a few days, or 
weeks, or months — the drop must fall long ere it wears a hole. 
Nor was the dissolving process continuous. No ; there were ups 
and downs, halts, hopings against hope. But the day came at 
last, and a sad day it was, when the viscountess realized her 
situation, when she saw her dream of love and happiness vanish 
like a brilliant soap-bubble, and cold ennui began to coil itself, 
like a snake, round her heart. 

Had the joys of maternity been granted to Lucy — had she 
possessed a dear infant, on whom to bestow the overflowinvs 


Eight Year-s After. 


385 


riches of her soul, all had been well with her. But Proyidence 
willed it otherwise. Lord Cleverton had longed for an Leir with 
all the ardor of the chief of a new dynasty, but he was too well 
bred and generous not to conceal, as well as he could, the bitter 
disappointment under which he smarted. Her ladyship^s acute- 
ness, however, soon led her to perceive that something besides 
political preoccupations weighed upon her husband’s mind ; and 
by dint of searching for the cause she found it. It is inconceiva- 
ble how quick we are to guess at that which will pain ns. This 
discovery completed Lucy’s misery, and few were the nights that 
she did not moisten her pillow with bitter tears. How many of 
the great, with rank and riches — envy of the vulgar who look up 
to them as suns and stars shining over head, — how many show, 
when brought close to the eye, some mysterious canker, some 
unsightly excrescence, that render them objects of pity I Just 
like that beautiful rose so eagerly plucked, and which lets drop 
its gorgeous corolla, giving to view a hideous worm in its calix. 
Lord Cleverton came to remark his wife’s altered looks and fre- 
quent fits of absence, not only with pain, but with displeasure. 
That admirable grace, that rich flow of conversation so natural 
and animated, which had drawn around her the wisest aad gayest 
of society, leaders in politics as well as leaders of fashion, were 
gradually being replaced by mere formal monotonous courtesy 
Lord Cleverton, who liked to hear his house talked of as one of 
the most agreeable in London, — for he looked on such a reputa- 
tion as one of the aids of his ambition, — watched, with a grow- 
ing discontent, legible enough in his countenance, his wife’s alter- 
nations of gaiety and gloom. Lucy, aware that his scrutinizing 
eye was on her, strove to mask, by perpetual smiles, the real 
dejection that preyed on her. Constraint arose on both sides ; 
time, as usual, widened the breach, and the husbai d and wife 
became every day more estranged from each other We do no? 
pretend to develop, we only indicate the situation. 


336 


Doctor Antonio. 


Meanwhile, as Lady Cleverton's health and spirits drooped, 
so did her duties, as mistress of one of the most splendid and 
hospitable mansions of the metropolis, become more burden- 
some, and never more so than in the spring of 184t. The 
Administration in esse was tottering, and a new ministry spoken 
of, in which public opinion assigned to Lord Cleverton an impor 
tant post. Ambitions, high and low, were up at an incandescent 
point, and none was higher than that of Lucy’s husband One 
more desperate push, one more defeat of the cabinet, and power, 
that long-desired goal, would be reached. Lord Gleverton’s 
house became the head-quarters of his party, where, amidst the 
glare of the ball-room, and the din of Italian and German 
singers, wavering voices were secured, places assigned, and the 
plan of a new campaign determined on. Now was the time 
when the young viscountess’s fascination of manner, and the per- 
suasive charm of her conversation, was to accomplish all that 
which Lord Cleverton had counted on when he 'first thought of 
her as a wife. He required of her to be assiduous at Court, to 
accept all invitations, no matter whether from his Grace or 
Excellency, or only from some of the Manchester school. She 
muse show herself everywhere, where fashion commands ladies 
of high degree to be, and, in order to triumph, look at all times 
as if triumph were already secured. All this Lady Cleverton 
did, unostentatiously, calmly. Her husband admired and won 
dered, then felt grateful to her. The way in which she con- 
formed to all his wishes, and adopted his views, caused a doubt, 
even in the heat of the chase, to enter his mind, as to whether 
he had been all he ought to have been to this fair creature ; and 
he resolved that, once the present crisis was over, the future 
should make amends for the past. But it was too late. Lord 
Cleverton, in the midst of his worldly plots and plans, took a 
fever, and died in a few days. He died with sad misgivings of 
having mistaken his road to happiness, and blessing the angel 


Eight Years After. 337 

who tended, nin'sed, and consoled him unremittingly and ten 
derly to the last. 

The ycui?^ widow, sadly shattered in health and spirits, 
repaired to Davenne, where growing age and severe fits of gout 
had kept Sir John a prisoner for the last two years. The tender 
father was frightened at the altered looks of his child, and was 
still more alarmed at the state of profound discouragement in 
which he saw her plunged. Lucy, in fact, felt as if she were 
dying, and nothing could shake her firm conviction that her days 
were numbered. Sir John did his best to reason her out of this 
gloomy fancy all in vain, until the idea of her going abroad 
suggested itself to him. “ Why should not what had succeeded 
once do so again ? She only required fresh air, change of scene, 
and quiet. Why not go for a little while to Bordighera, and 
consult Doctor Antonio ? She was certainly far more delicate 
when they were there eight years ago than now, and how soon 
he had set her to rights. Probably the Count would let them 
his Casino, or they might induce the doctor to go with them to 
Rome. He, Sir John, was sure that Doctor Antonio would do 
anything for her.” The worthy baronet had struck the right 
chord, and perceiving his advantage, he reiterated his arguments. 
And now Doctor Antonio and Bordighera, Bordighera and 
Doctor Antonio, and the old Osteria, and Speranza and Battista 
— ^those long unspoken names — became the daily themes of con- 
versation at Davenne Hall. Buried recollections rose again to 
life, old associations asserted their power, refreshing and vivify- 
ing Lucy^s heart. A dawn of hope gleamed on her downcast 
spirit. Yes, if anything could save her, it was the attendance 
of that kind doctor of hers — it was the soft-perfumed air of the 
sweet Riviera. It came to be settled accordingly, that as soon 
as her first year of mourning was over, Lucy and her father 
should set out for the Riviera. Lucy waited with a sort of 
nostalgia, longing for the arrival of that moment, which, when 

15 


338 


Doctor Antonio. 


it came at last, found poor Sir John nailed fast bj a fit of the 
gout, severer than usual. He would not, however, consent to 
any delay on Lucy’s part, and was peremptory as to her going, 
for friends and doctors had long agreed that the viscountess 
must leave England before the March winds began to blow. Sir 
John would join her at Bordighera, at Rome, at Naples, any- 
where, but go she must, and at opce. Lucy, not liking to go so 
far from home with only servants, engaged a middle-aged lady 
to travel with her as a companion ; and thus chapercmed, she set 
out for Paris in the middle of February, 1848. Too anxious to 
reach Italy to find any temptations for delay in the French 
capital. Lady Cleverton resumed her journey, luckily, previous 
to the appearance of the Republican barricades on the Boule- 
vards. Once at Nice, her impatience knew no bounds. She 
would not even allow herself a few days to recover from her 
fatigues ; but her sensitive nature shrinking from the idea of 
exposing to a stranger the emotions she knew must be roused by 
the scenes she was about to revisit, she left her companion at 
the hotel, and, attended only by the faithful Hutchins and a 
man-servant, went on to Bordighera with the feverish eagerness 
of one whose life is staked on the throw of a die. She wished 
to live now ; and no doctor, save Doctor Antonio, could make 
her live. Lucy had a sort of superstition on this point. 

At last the carriage passed the promontory of Bordighera, and 
the little valley beneath opened to view. Lucy strained hej 
eager eyes to take in at one gaze all the details of the once 
familiar scene, and her heart sank within her. What was it that 
gave the poor Osteria, the garden, the very sea-side, such a 
desolate, deserted look ? In the growing flutter of her spirits 
she could see nothing distinctly ; still she discerned enough to 
feel that, whatever the cause, a change had come over the spot 
She stops the carriage, hurries with trembling limbs down the 
lane. The little gate hangs from one rusty hinge, as if no Uuman 


Eight Years After 


839 


being had passed through it for ages ; the garden is a perfect 
wilderness of weeds and brambles ; the once luxuriant grove of 
lemon and orange trees has dwindled into a scanty assemblage 
of shivered, scattered, skeleton-looking trunks, — the few dry 
reddish leaves, still hanging on the branches, look as if they had 
been scorched by lightning ; the house, all cracks, splits, and 
holes, is fast tumbling and crumbling to pieces. The only part 
entire is the massive flight of stairs. Such of the shutters as are 
not swinging to the wind, or lying on the ground, are hermeti- 
cally closed. Everything around bears the marks of utter 
neglect, decay, and desolation. 

While knocking at the glass-door, which is fastened from 
within, and calling Speranza and Battista, Lucy is startled by a 
voice at the foot of the stone-steps. It is a young villager, who 
informs her that there is no one in the house to answer her 
knocks or calls ; the house is uninhabited, and has been so ever 
since the death of the last proprietor. 

“What I Speranza dead ? — Battista dead 

“ No, no ; Speranza and Battista are both alive, thank God, 
and in good health. They keep the post-house at Mentone. 
They had sold the Osteria to an old man, who had since died.” 

Lucy breathes more freely. 

“ And — the parish doctor of Bordighera,” she falters. “What 
of him?” 

“ Doctor Gabriele, you mean ? He is very well, I thank 
you.” 

“ Not Doctor Gabriele — I mean Doctor Antonio — a tall 
entleman with a long beard — a Sicilian.” 

“ Ah, yes I I know now who you mean. I beg your pardon, 
but I do not belong to this place. The doctor you speak of 
went away long ago ; at least so I’ve heard.’' 

Lucy leant against the balustrade — her knees were giving 
way 


340 


Doctor Antonio. 


** And yon don^t know, of course,” said she, trembling fioni 
head to foot, “ where he is ?” 

“No, I do not, and I fear that nobody hereabouts knows.” 

The young peasant had all this time been examining his fair 
questioner with much curiosity and interest. “ Perhaps,” added 
he, with some hesitation, “ perhaps, you are the Signora Inglest 
who lived long in this house, and did so much good to the 
country ?” 

It was a cordial to Lucy to find how well she was remembered. 
The interest felt for her by those left behind had not then died 
out. The young man^s words somewhat soothed the smart of 
this bitter disappointment. 

“You have guessed right,” she answered. “ I am that Ingkse. 
Take this for the sake of one who loves Bordighera well ;” and, 
hurrying to the carriage, she bid the servant order the postilion 
back to the Post Inn at Mentone. 

The rain had been dropping fast during Lucy^s halt, and she 
was now wet and shivering. Hutchins suggested the expediency 
of her stopping somewhere to have her clothes dried, and to get 
something warm to drink ; but Lucy would not hear of stopping 
before she reached Mentone. The promise of a fabulous pour- 
hoire inspiring the postilion with fresh courage, he whirled his 
long whip round his head with such violent smacks, as set his 
horses off into a gallop, and away they went, splashing furiously 
through mud and mire. The day was on the wane as the bespat- 
tered carriage stopped in front of the Inn of the Post. 

The sky had partially cleared to the West, and the rosy tints 
of the sun setting amidst a mass of huge black clouds, streamed 
down on a group at the side of the i^n door — one of those 
homely domestic pictures of which Teniers or Mieris would have 
made a little wonder. On a wooden bench sat a black-eyed, 
black-haired, handsome young woman, and, a little way from 
her a dark-complexioned, dark-whiskered man of thirty, with a 


341 


Eight Years After. 

pipe in his mouth, was squatting on his heels, with arms ou^ 
stretched towards a rosy, curly-headed cherub — both parents 
encouraging, by act and word, the little fellow’s first attempts at 
walking, while he, with screams of infantile delight, tottered 
from the one to the other. Lucy gazed earnestly on the trio. 
Speranza turns and catches sight of the sweet face. “ Madonna 
^anta ! Mother, mother, it is la Signora.” In an instant she is 
on her feet, and, thrusting the infant into the crouching Bat- 
tista’s arms with an impetuosity that lays her husband flat on his 
back, with the child sprawling over him, she springs np the car- 
riage steps, and falls on Lucy’s neck. “ Oh, my dear lady I — my 
dear lady !” is all Speranza can say. Rosa rushes out, with but 
one thought, of course, that of some mortal injury having hap- 
pened to the screaming hope of the family. Battista scrambles 
to his legs, and a general recognition takes place amid such' 
blessings, blubberings, clapping of hands, and invocations of 
the Virgin, as would be highly comical, were it not very 
touching. 

“ Bless me ! how cold your hands are, signora. How wearied 
you look ! If only Doctor Antonio was here.” Speranza bites 
her tongue ; Lucy is rather carried than shown up stairs to the 
best room of the house. A bright fire soon crackles on the 
hearth, a sofa is wheeled forward, and. Lucy, her wet shawl and 
dress taken off, is comfortably wrapped up and laid upon it to 
warm and rest herself. Speranza leans fondly over her lovely 
charge, strokes and kisses by turns her cold hands and feet, dries 
and smooths and kisses the fair damp curls, smiling all the while, 
and chatting and blessing the day and the hour, and the 
Madonna, yet, even in her excitement, forgetting nothing that 
can in the least minister to the comfort of her cara cara padrona^ 
as she calls Lucy ; least of all, the toast and the hot tea — not 
the ev^ery-day tea, but that kept in the green canister for extraor 
dinary occasions Miss Hutchins is completely set aside for the 


842 


Doctor Antonio. 


time being, and takes it good-humoredly. Speranza will yiild 
to no one, not even to her mother, the right to place the little 
feet in warm slippers, or to put the “ monk ” to air the bed, or 
to do the slightest service for this adored padrona of hers. 

Lucy felt herself revived in this genial atmosphere of devotion, 
and, as she sat sipping her tea, which seemed like nectar to her, 
a glow of comfort spread itself over her weary frame and heart. 
It was long, indeed, since she had enjoyed such a banquet, for 
eight long years she had been famishing. Not all the prestige 
of station and fortune, not all the pleasures of gratified vanity, 
had given her an hour like this. Of all the homage that had 
been pressed on her, of all the smiles that had beamed on the 
noble lady, be it even those from royal lips, none had so glad- 
dened, none bad so flattered her, as the smile of this peasant 
woman, as the homage of these simple folks. There are bless- 
ings, thank God, that rank does not command, nor riches buy. 

Lucy told Speranza of her visit to Bordighera, and of the shock 
she had received on seeing the altered state of things there, and 
of her disappointment at finding Doctor Antonio gone. “ We 
will speak of all that to-morrow, dear lady,” said Speranza, who 
had remarked Lucy’s drooping eyelids, and after you have had 
the good night’s rest I expect you to have, I will only just tell 
70U that Doctor Antonio went back to his own country, and is 
there still, at least was there two months ago. Signora Eleonora 
has had a letter from him, and she can tell you everything about 
our dear friend. W e heard there was a great revolution in Sicily, 
and that he fought like a lion. There has been a famous revolu- 
tion in Sardinia tOvVy and one here at Mentone, and at Rocca- 
bruno. Battista watv at the head of it, — upon my word he was ! 
— and he is to be an v.fiicer in the national guard. The com- 
mandant of San Remo has run away, and there are to be no 
more commandants, at least so they say ; and the carabineer* 
are to count rs noting iL\c*’'e than other people. Has there been 


Eight Years Attf,r. 


343 


A revolution in your country also asked Speranza, with very 
much the air of a person who takes for granted the thing inquired 
about. 

“ No, thank God 1” said Lucy, smiling. 

‘‘No revolution !” repeated Speranza, rather disappointed. 
“ But then you have no commandants in your country,'^ she 
added, as if that settled the matter. Thus, while addressing 
Lucy, Speranza, notwithstanding her wise resolution to put off 
all conversation till the morrow, told what was most interesting 
to her hearer. It was something to know that all trace of the 
doctor was not lost ; so, after receiving Speranza^s blessing, Lucy 
fell asleep, and dreamed all night of blue seas, perfumed orange- 
trees, and that she was walking in the little garden of the Osteria 
with Doctor Antonio. 

Early in the morning Speranza brought her children to Lucy, 
— two healthy, beautiM girls, as dark as night. Lucia Maria 
and Rosa Lucia, and the little curly-headed Lucio. “ Did you 
know before that tlv^fe was such a name as Lucio V’ asked the 
proud young mother 

“ I believe I did,^^ replied Lucy. 

“ Well, I am swe, for my part, I did not,” said Speranza ; 
“ and I was soielj puzzled, as he was a boy, how to name the 
little one after you, for I was determined to do so, even if I had 
had to make a. name on purpose. Battista wanted me to call 
him John, after your father, but that would not have done half 
so well : and 3^ what do you think I did ? I took an almanac 
and looked through all the saints, and at last I found Lucio — 
bless him and Speranza showed all her white teeth in the 
delight of relating her discovery. 

Lucy Mary and Rosa Lucy being dismissed in good time, and 
Lucio given over to his grandmother’s spoiling care, Speranza 
turned to Lucy and said, “ Ah I dear lady, you can never know 
how we felt when yon were carried away from us so su(Menly 


Doctor Antonio. 


Do not be angry with me for saying eo, but it was downright 
cruel of your brother to come here and take you from a place 
where you were so well and happy, and where every one, old and 
young, doted on you. I shall never forget the feeling I had when 
I lost sight of the carriage. We were all as miserable as could 
be, and did not know what to do. Mother pined and sighed aU 
day long and every day, Battista was like a fish out of water, and 
grew quite cross, and as for the poor doctor (here Speranza shook 
her head ominously), how he wandered up and down, here and 
there, like a soul in purgatory, finding no peace or rest go where 
he would 1 It made one^s heart ache to watch him sitting for 
hours together where he could get a sight of the Osteria. Who 
would ever have thought matters were to end so, when we used 
to see you and him walking side by side, both so young and 
handsome, and so pleased to be together, that it seemed as if 
God had made you on purpose for one another. But what is the 
use of repining now ?” continued Speranza, noticing Lucy’s 
changing cheek. “No doubt it was the will of God that things 
should go wrong in the way they did, only the poor doctor never 
recovered the shock of your going away — ^he was never like the 
same man again. I do not mean to say that he was not as good, 
and kind, and charitable as before, — ^it would be a lie to say that 
he was not all that ; but he had grown grave, and never had 
anything droll to say to make a poor body laugh. The priests, 
too, with the curd at their head, had taken a dislike to him, — 
and then there was always the same story of the communion- 
ticket at Easter. Can you believe that the curd one day asked, 
from the pulpit, what business foreigners had among us ? — as if 
oreigners were not Christians I Altogether, Doctor Antonio 
had a sorry life of it, and he had a great mind to go away. 
Well, one day, — it was in the year of 1842, he received a letter 
from his home with the news of his mother’s death The kind, 
good soul took it so much to heart that he fell ill. and if it had 


345 


Eight Years After. 

not Ik <01 for that fat little English doctor from Nice, you remem- 
ber, signora, who came and nursed him like a brother, I do 
believe Doctor Antonio would ha,ve died. He did recover at last, 
but, olj^ dear me ! he looked like the shadow of himself. The 
Englisl doctor took him away to Nice, and soon after Doctor 
Antonk ^nt to tell the town-council that he gave up his appoint- 
ment as parish doctor, and from that time we never saw him 
again. Once, when the English doctor stopped here a night, he 
told us that Doctor Antonio’s mother had managed some way, — 
I did no rightly understand how, but she had done something 
which pi..^vented the government in her country from taking 
away the fortune she had bequeathed to her son ; and then we 
heard by chance that our good friend had left Nice, and was 
away tra 'elling, no one knew where. 

“ Youi going had made Bordighera sad enough and dun 
enough to us, but now that Doctor Antonio was gone too, we 
began to hate it, and we made up our minds that we would go 
also as soon as we could. Everything had thriven well with us, 
and we had saved a good sum of money. A blessing was on all 
you had dot^e for us. People came from far and near to look at 
the old Osteria, where the great English Milor and his beautiful 
daughter had stayed so long. Almost all the travellers on this 
road from your country stopped at our house, and liked to hear 
us talk of you and all you did ; and they paid us handsomely for 
what they had, and would often stay over the night, because, 
they said, we had learnt from you how to make English people 
comfortable. We liked them all for your sake. Signora, though 
none of them seemed to know you. So we were as well off as 
heart could wish. The landlord of the Post Inn at Mentone 
wanted to retire from business, and had offered to sell ns the 
whole concern, but we were afraid to say yes before we had 
found a purchaser for the Osteria. We had good luck in that 
also. .n old sailor, whom every one had given up for lost, aU 


346 


Doctor Antonio. 


of a sudden returned to Bordigliera, after having been away foi- 
forty years. He was a man who liked to live alone, and as he 
found all his people dead, it made him more unwilling to stay in 
the town. He took a fancy to the Osteria, because, he said, it 
was out of the way, and he should not be troubled with seeing 
many faces. So we made two bargains at the same time, and 
then we came here, where we have been for six years, with only 
one wish — that the day might come when we should see again 
the Heaven-sent angel, to whom, after God, we owe everything 
we possess, and that we are as we are ; ” and grateful Speranza 
took within her own hard hands Lucy’s soft small ones, and 
covered them with hearty kisses. 

“ But how has the poor Osteria come to be such a ruin ? ” 
asked Lucy. 

‘‘ It was the earthquake of 1844 — a tremendous one — chat 
did it; it nearly threw it quite down,” returned Speranza. 
“ .A Imost all the houses in or around Bordighera suffered more 
or less, but none so severely as the poor old Osteria del Mattone, 
Some persons say it was because the foundations were bad. As 
to the garden, there has been no one to look after it for years, so 
no wonder it has run all to waste. The old sailor died the year 
after the earthquake, and as he left no will, and seemed to have 
no relations, the house was shut up, and it and the garden left 
to take care of one another. Battista says he saw in the Gazette, 
the other day, that notice was given, that if no relations of the 
late owner came forward to claim the property by such a time, 
it was to go to the king.” 

Lucy spent that day and the following night at the Inn of the 
Post, determining to go the morning after to Taggia, to ascer- 
tain from Signora Eleonora, if possible, where Doctor Antonio 
was likely to be found. She made no attempt to conceal from 
her humble friend her earnest desire to place herself under hn* 
medical care, nor her superstitious feeling that no one but Docior 


Eight Years After. 


847 


Antonio could restore her shattered health. The affectionata 
Speranza had not failed to notice Lucy’s emaciated appear- 
ance and her frequent fits of coughing, but had given no other 
sign of the anxiety she felt than by clinging more fondly than 
ever to her benefactress ; Speranza gave her hearty approval to 
this plan, convinced, like the lady, of Antonio’s powers ; nor, for 
anything that Lucy could say to the contrary, was Speranza to 
be dissuaded from going to Taggia with her. '' Mother and 
Battista can take care of the children, and mind -he ousiness,” 
said Speranza ; “ now that I have you once more, let me make 
the most of the God-send.” 

Signora Eleonora was not at Taggia ; she had just left for 
Genoa, with her two sons, both of whom had returned from 
banishment. Lucy was delighted at this news, and only longed 
the more to see and congratulate her old acquaintance. Spe- 
ranza pleaded a similar wish so earnestly that she got leave to 
accompany her English friend to Genoa. The little journey was 
charming, the sky cloudless, the sun bright and warm, the sea 
deep blue ; and Lucy felt rekindle within her that passion for the 
beautiful which had shaped so many of her pleasures in past 
days : she inhaled with delight the genial air, and at the sight 
of that privileged Nature, went over in her mind all her former 
sensations and emotions, with a keenness of enjoyment only to be 
compared to that of a miser who tells over and over again all 
the coins of a long lost, newly regained treasure. 

On reaching Genoa, Lady Cleverton found no difficulty in 
tracing out Signora Eleonora ; the good old lady held out her 
arms to her unexpected visitor, without any words of articulate 
welcome. What a myriad of thoughts rushed through the mind 
of each as they held one another in a close embrace I Lucy was 
the first to speak. “ Did not I tell you that, one day or other 
you would receive back your dear ones T’ 

“ God bless your kind heart,” returned the Italian lady ; th€ 


S48 


Doctor Antonio. 


Almighty has indeed listened tc our prayers, and made me ont 
of the proudest and happiest of mothers.” 

Speranza came in for no small share of the Signora’s caressed 
and kindness ; and il angels ever weep for tenderness, we take it 
for granted that they did so when they watched this meeting. 

Signora Eleonora had little to add to the information about 
Doctor Antonio, already given by Speranza, and that little waa 
ill suited to raise Lucy’s spirits. Once only had the kind old 
lady heard from her Sicilian friend since his return to his own 
country. She showed the letter to Lucy ; it was dated Palermo, 
uhe 1st February, 1848, and gave a short account of the strug- 
gle that had just taken place between the king’s troops and the 
popular party. The doctor had evidently written in the first 
moments of excitement, after a dearly bought victory. The 
letter had this postscript. I have, God be thanked I been so 
fortunate as to shed some of my blood in my country’s cause. 
A half-spent Neapolitan ball wounded me in the right shoulder ; 
it is a mere scratch, and does not prevent my using my arm, as 
you see. I only tell you of it lest you might see my name 
among the casualties, and be uneasy. I will write again soon.” 

“ And you have not heard from him since ?” exclaimed Lucy, 
turniug cold. Signora Eleonora shook her head. “ His wound, 
then, must have proved more serious than he thought, otherwise 
he would have kept his promise. He must be ill, I am afraid, 
that” — and her fancy getting the upper hand of reason, she at 
once pictured to herself this dear friend alone, sick, helpless, per- 
haps even dying. Lucy made up her mind on the instant she 
would go to Naples, cross to Palermo, and, coute qite coute, find 
him. She accordingly wrote, by that same day’s post, to her 
father to come and join her at Naples, adding, that if by chance 
she were not there on his arrival, he would, at all events, find fur- 
ther directions as to her movements at the British Embassy. 
She wrote also to her companion, who was still waiting at Nic/ 


Eight Years After 


349 


tp€ come post-haste to Genoa ; and three days after, our delicate, 
fragile Lucy was on board a steamer bound for Naples. 

Signora Eleonora and Speranza saw her on board, and re- 
mained with her to the last, uttering words of hope and comfort 
The parting was a sad affair, particularly with Speranza, who 
would not let go her hold of her dear padrona’s dress till she 
forced a promise from her that if, at any time, Lucy wanted her, 
she would send for her. “ I know that I am only a poor, igno- 
rant peasant woman, and you a high-born, rich lady,” said the 
poor creature, the tears running down her cheeks, ** still they say 
a mouse once helped a lion ; so pray, my dear, dear mistress, ; 
never forget that I am all yours, and if the poor peasant can be 
of any service call her to you ; — oh I promise me you will, and 1 
will abide by you and serve you to my last day I will 1 indeed 
^ will, so help me the Madonna I” 


850 


Doctor Antonio. 


Chapter XXII. 

Naples. 


The tide of national feeling, which, ever since the accession M 
Pius the Ninth, and the first reforms granted by him, had been 
swelling slowly but uninterruptedly throughout Italy, had no* 
where risen higher than in Naples and Sicily. But while the 
daily increasing demands for reform met with no hoiitility from 
the ruling powers in Rome, Tuscany, or Piedmont, nay, were in 
S(Hne degree yielded to, the case was very different in Naples and 
in Sicily. There, on the contrary, a determined opposition to all 
progress was arrayed in panoply of battle, and more than once 
had the loyal cries of “Long live Pius the Ninth I- - Long live 
Ferdinand the Second, and Reform I” been responded to by vol- 
leys of musketry, and been followed by severe incarcerations. 
Sicily, her patience worn out, her moderation, her long suftering, 
her fidelity, all alike disregarded, at last resolved to snatch, by 
main force, what her petitions and remonstrances had hitherto 
failed in obtaining. Chivalrous in her misery, she named a day 
to her king, until when she would wait the issue of her last 
prayer for redress. If it were overlooked, she would then take 
the ultima ratio of peoples as well as of kings. As might be 
anticipated, this appeal was treated with the usual cruel indiffer- 
ence, and Sicily, true to her word, rose in arms. Palermo took 
the lead, and, on the appointed day, was in full insurrection. 


Naples. 


351 


The news set ah Naples in a blaze. It was like a lighted 
match thrown into a smouldering fire. Thousands poured into 
Via Toledo, thousands crowded the square before the royal 
palace. They were, it is true, unarmed, and their cries were the 
pacific ones of “Viva il Re, Viva la Constitnzione,” but the 
attitude was that of menace. If we may judge from all appear* 
ances, the king was well inclined to look on this effervescence 
of popular feeling as a personal challenge, which he was nothing 
loth to accept. A huge red flag, never hoisted but as a signal 
of war, was seen to float from the towers of the castle of St. 
Elmo. The multitude kept the position they had taken up, in 
no way scared by the ugly emblem, whose sanguinary appearance 
they answered by cries, the sound of which was becoming fiercer. 
Tri-color cockades seemed to spring from the pavement below 
their feet, and, eagerly distributed, soon decorated every hat and 
coat. 

There comes a moment in which bayonet and cannon are pow- 
erless against what appears unarmed, defenceless numbers. Once 
the blood of the people is up, hands and arms of flesh tear down 
stone walls and mock at artillery. Modern history, from the 
destruction of the Bastile, downwards, is full of examples. Such 
a crisis was now at hand ; that it passed without bloodshed may 
be attributed to the courageous refusal of General Robert!, the 
brave and honest commandant of the castle, to bombard the 
town. Rather than do so, he tendered his resignation. All 
this occurred on the damp and gloomy morning of the 27th 
January, 1848. 

The king, finding himself in an awkward dilemma, called 
around him most of the eminent men in whom he had confidence 
Count Statella, commander-in-chief of Naples, and General Filan- 
gieri, were among the number. With one voice they answered 
Ferdinand by advising him to change his ministers without delay, 
and to grant the constitution. The cabinet was accordingly dia 


852 


Doctor Antonio. 


Bolyed, and its moving spirit the hero of Bosco and Catania, De 
Caretto, unceremoniously put on board a government steamer 
The disgraced minister, followed by the curses of his countrymen, 
and met by the execrations of Genoa and Leghorn, where the 
vessel had to stop, made the best of his way to Marseilles. The 
banishment of Del Caretto was an act of tardy justice, and mild, 
too, when compared to his crimes, but it was not the less an act 
of black ingratitude on the part of the king. The moment Fer- 
dinand began to fear for himself, he behaved like any common 
villain, sacrificing, without hesitation, one whom he ought to have 
supported, as his active, unscrupulous accomplice and faithful 
servant. 

The universal prayer of the people was at last to be listeneti 
to, a constitution was promised, and a few days after publicly 
proclaimed. 

The king used the following words is its solemn preamble : — 
“ Concurring in the unanimous desire of our most beloved sub- 
jects, we have promised, of our own full, free, and spontaneous 
will, to establish in this kingdom a constitution, and, in the awful 
name of the Most Holy and Almighty God, the Trinity in Unity, 
to whom alone it appertains to read the depths of the heart, and 
whom we loudly invoke as the judge of the simplicity of our inten- 
tions, and of the unreserved sincerity with which we have deter- 
mined to enter upon the paths of the new political order, we have 
decided upon proclaiming, and do proclaim, as irrevocably ratified 
by us, the following constitution.” 

On the 24th of February, with every pomp and circum- 
stance of solemnity, this constitution was sworn to by the king, 
the princes of the royal family, the new ministers, the chief 
officers of the army, the magistracy, and all the other high 
functionaries of the kingdom. A few days after, the electoral 
law was promulgated, and the convocation of parliament fixed foi 
the 1st of May. 


Naples. 


853 


It is in the nature of things, that those who are at the he&d of 
affairs, in any time of great excitement, should give little satisfac- 
tion to any party. What has been is overthrown — what is to be 
is yet unsubstantial hope. Expectation is strained to such a 
pitch, that no wonder the men at the helm fail in coming up to it 
— ^indeed, necessarily fall far short. Nor were the new ministers 
any exception to the rule. Fault was found with them on every 
side for not at once discovering a solution for the Sicilian ques- 
tion, the Gordian knot of the situation — for not giving to their 
politics a more decided Italian character — for not adopting the 
three national colors, and so on. In short, the cabinet could do 
nothing right, and became so avowedly unpopular, that its only 
course was to resign. The accession to power of the new admin- 
istration — called, from the date of its formation, the ministry of 
the 6th of March — was hailed by an unbounded and general cry 
of joy. This was the state of things when Lucy, towards the end 
of the month of March, reached Naples. 

The great bustle and animation of the city, the demonstrative 
joy of all classes, especially that of the lower order (the very 
lazzaroni were adorers of liberty at that moment, and all that 
can be argued from after events is, that Machiavellian arts can 
pervert man’s most natural feelings), would have afforded our 
heroine ample scope for observation and interest, had not other 
thoughts and other cares exclusively absorbed her. The people 
of the hotel in Via Toledo, where Lady Cleverton stopped, 
opened their eyes, and pursed up their lips, when told to have 
the noble lady’s passport, and that of her suite, vised for 
Palermo. Perhaps miladi did not know that Palermo was in 
open rebellion, and all Sicily in an uproar.” Miladi knew it 
perfectly well, but miladi was determined on going, and they 
must do as they were desired. Presently, in hot haste, came Mr. 

X , a young attach6 from the British embassy, where the 

passports had been presented for signature. This gentleman was 


354 


Doctor Antonio. 


a cousin of Lord Oleverton, to whom he owed his diploixatU 
post, and waited on her ladyship to dissuade her from attempt* 
ing what he styled a mad expedition. The two countries were 
positively at open war — the sea was not safe — Neapolitan 
cruisers were out expressly to prevent any strangers from landing 
on the island — without any actual danger, Lady Cleverton might 
be placed in some very unpleasant predicament. Lady Cleverton 
looked very obstinate. “ Her Britannic Majesty^s ambassador, 
continued the attachd, “ was unwilling to authorize her ladyship^s 
running such risks. There was a talk of Lord Minto’s being the 
bearer of terms to the Sicilians in a few days. If Lady Clever 
ton really persisted in her present determination, a passage might 
be obtained for her at the same time in the royal steamer.” 
Lucy was not to be persuaded that all these precautions were 
necessary for an English lady travelling for her health. His 
Excellency came himself in the evening to talk to his refractory 
countrywoman, and so seriously urged her adoption of the plan 
he proposed, that there was nothing else for it than to yield, 
particularly as she dared not be explicit as to why she so 
preferred the air of Palermo to that of Naples ; not indeed that 
she felt in the least ashamed of what she was doing, for never 
had Sister of Charity been actuated by purer motives, but Lucy 
nad now sufficient experience of the world to know that it 
rarely puts the best construction on actions susceptible of two 
interpretations, and so, out of self-respect, she kept her own 
secret. 

Our viscountess found the days that followed dreadfully long. 

Nothing more difficult than to wait. Mr. X , the attache, 

who, in virtue of his cousinship, claimed th.8 right of amusing 
her, was most assiduous in his attentions, proposing all the usual 
excursions and sight-seeing. Lucy would accept of no amuse- 
ment ; she could not bear to have her thoughts disturbed, 
though her gentle, grateful nature prevented her telling her 


Naples. 356 

vifittor that his efforts rather increased than allayed the fever of 
tier impatience. 

One day the yonng diplomatist came in a greater bustle than 
Qsual He always appeared, even in his idleness, as if he bore 
the weight of the world on his shoulders. Well, this day he was 
full of the news, that on the ensuing evening there was to be 
great reception at court, the first since the establishing of a con- 
stitutional government. It would be worth going to, if only for 
the fun of the thing. 

“ What do you mean ?” asked Lady Cleverton. 

“ Per San Gennaro, as they say here,” returned the attach^, 
laughing, “ we are to have ail the veterans of Carbonarism, all 
the celebrities of the Progress party. A batch of musty awocatt 
and doctors are to play first fiddles at court now. Lord, how 
Ferdinand will mystify them I” 

“ I do not understand why you, who, being an Englishman, 
ought to know better, should ridicule the learned professions,” 
remarked Lady Cleverton, drily. 

But who on earth, my sweet lady cousin, ever thinks of 
putting Neapolitan doctors and lawyers on the same footing as 
English ones ?” 

“ And why not ?” asked the lady, in the same dry voice. 

“ Don’t look so fierce,” answered the fine gentleman, laughing, 
but not pleased, “for really I only echo the opinion of every one. 
I know none of the gentry you seem so interested in, save by 
sight. His Excellency has luckily put your name on the list of 
strangers to be presented to-morrow. You had better go and 
Judge for yourself.” 

“ I think I shall,” returned Lady Cleverton ; “ it will be worth 
while to see men whose name will figure in a page of history.” 

The attache was regularly puzzled by the widow of his illus- 
trious relative. “ After all,” thought he, “ the best of her sex 
will say no to Pompeii, Vesuvius, and the San Carlo, on the plea 


Doctor Antonio. 


of health and want of spirits, but sheTl go to court though sht 
were dying.” 

The knowing attache’s prognostications were not to be yen- 
fied. When Lady Cleverton joined the royal circle, she found 
every one and everything looking much as they generally look on 
such distinguished occasions ; it was even impossible to tell that 
there was any want of blazonry in the assembly. Perhaps, 
owing to the new elements introduced, there was more animation, 
certainly less dullness, than usual. If there were any deviations 
from court etiquette, the example was set by the king himself, 
who went from group to group, shaking hands and speaking 
courteously to everybody, acting the citizen king to the life 
He was simply dressed in black, and, but for the Grand Cross of 
San Gennaro, the ribbon of which he wore saltierwise, and the 
deference shown him, might have been taken for one of the 
guests, and not one of the best-looking either. Tall, long-legged, 
small-headed, grey-haired, and short-sighted, with little of the 
prepossessing or commanding about him, save what he owed to 
his erect carriage and deliberate gait, Ferdinand the Second had 
rather the appearance of an elderly cavalry ofiScer on half-pay 
than of a king eight-and-thirty years of age. 

But Lady Cleverton gazed at him with unmixed admiration. 
All that she had heard from Doctor Antonio of Ferdinand him- 
self, or of his race, was at that moment forgotten, and the 
shades cast on his brow by untoward precedents disappeared in 
the aureok of popularity which encircled, in her eyes, the prince 
of reform, — the prince, who, like a philosopher, had yielded to 
the voice of public opinion, — ^the prince, who, like a father, had 
granted the prayers of his people. Did not he, who had diffused 
happiness throughout a whole kirigdom, dest/rve blessing and 
affection ? 

But the young attachd, who w*/'. resolved or. being her cice- 
rone, would not leave her to be? Tcffoctions. Look at those 


Naples. 


357 


two gentlemen,” said he, ‘‘ between whom Ms majesty is walk 
ing : the one on the king’s left is Bozzelli, minister of the inte- 
rior, a refugee of yesterday ; and the other, Mg-headed, shaggy- 
haired, and middle-sized, is Carlo Poerio, minister of public 
instruction. All that one knows about them is, that they are 
both advocates, with lots to say for themselve \ and have often 
been imprisoned on political charges, which, however, could 
never be proved against them. And now, you see, for all that, 
here they are, quite the rage in I^aples, and looksd upon as the 
two great pillars of the cabinet.” 

The gentleman the attache called Poerio, forcibly attracted 
Lucy’s attention. His was the vast powerful foiehead, which 
she had so admired in Doctor Antonio, his the clear, unsparkling 
hazel eye, and thin, firmly set lip, which bore evidence to an 
unconquerable will. 

“ That thin, fair-haired, meditative-looking yoEng man,” con- 
tinued the attache, who, so that he might talk, did not care 
much whether he was listened to or not, “ is Pro^sor Settem’ 
brini, editor of a leading paper, an out-and-out Utopist. He 
was to have had a place in the ministry, but some o le, I believe, 
objected to him on account of his looking so young However, 
you may be sure he is booked to be one of the futun - legislators 
of this country. And so is that tall old fellow in gold spectacles, 
pa,ssing close to us — some mushroom magistrate ; I *brget his 
name. Paron — something. Ah I Pironti, that is it ; an intri- 
guant of the first water ; they are every one of them p )ople of 
yesterday Heaven only knows where they spring frou I The 
tall portly gentleman in the embrasure of that window op losite,’ 
said the Englishman, lowering his voice to a respectful wMsper, 
is the king’s own brother, his Royal Highness, the Cpnat of 
Syracuse, formerly Viceroy of Sicily. 1 wonder who he is speak- 
ing to ? It is a face I don’t know — some other pa/rvenu, I s»0' 
pose.” 


858 


Doctor Antonio. 


Lucy could not help giving a great start ; the blood ushed 
to her face, and thick drops of moisture rose on her brow, 
** What is the matter cried the unfledged diplomatist. Are 
you ill r 

“ It is nothing ; a sudden giddiness.” 

Would you like to go away ? — it must be from the heat of 
the room.” 

“ Very likely,” answered Lucy, in an unsteady voice. 

Fortunately for her, the English ambassador himself came up 
to her, and the attache made his bow without further comment. 
His excellency was very sorry, but he had reason to believe that 
Lord Mintons mission to Sicily would be put off for another fort- 
night at least. New complications had arisen. The viscountess 
received this piece of news very coolly. She did not mind a lit- 
tle delay ; it was just possible she might give up her plan alto- 
gether. His excellency was too well-bred to do more than raise 
his eyelids at this unexpected announcement ; he, who had really 
been taking no little trouble in the matter, was thrown over- 
board without so much as “ thank you.” After a little desul- 
tory talk the ambassador went to make his usual round of bows, 
and Lucy was at length left to herself. 

The companion of the Count of Syracuse was a tall, black- 
haired, black-eyed man, who, at first sight, looked scarcely past 
thii’ty ; his countenance was thoughtful but serene, his smile 
most winning, his carriage noble and erect ; the countenance, 
the smile, the figure, in one word, of Doctor Antonio. Instead 
of his long beard he had now a thick moustache on his upper lip. 
Save this slight difference, and a shade of pallor, greater perhaps 
than of old, there was nothing changed about him ; he looked 
as young and handsome in his way as he had done eight years 
ago. 

The king coming near them, the count and Antonio left the 
window and approached his majesty, who, stopping to exchange 


Naples. 


869 


ft few words with his brother, suddenly took the doctoi^s arm, 
and, drawing it through his own, continued his walk. Lucy had 
not lost one of the details of this little scene, least of all had she 
missed the sudden flash of those well-known black eyes as they 
met hers, or the color that set the pale countenance all in a 
glow. What was the feeling that made the viscountess turn her 
head away, and try to get behind some ladies ? Was it fear of 
an august presence, or was it a misgiving that she was sadly 
changed from what she had been ? Lucy scarcely knew. The 
motion had been instantaneous, mechanical, irresistible, and she 
was in far too great a flutter of spirits to scan or analyze the 
secret springs of the* action. 

Half an hour passed, in the course of which Lucy^s eyes 
turned more thm once in the direction of the door, through 
which she had seen the king and Doctor Antonio disappear 
More than once had the advent of some score of tall, black 
haired, and moustached gentlemen through that door made hei 
heart beat loud and fast. Here he. comes at last — not in a hurry, 
but with his usual long quiet strides, as gentle and unpretending 
amid his changed fortunes as when, a poor village doctor, he 
went his rounds among his humble patients of Bordighera. 
Here he comes, and, with beaming eyes, makes straight for her. 

“ You here I” he exclaimed, as she placed her hand in his. 

What an unlooked-for happineso 1 Who would ever have dreamt, 
eight years ago, of our meeting at Naples, and, of all places in 
the world, at court 

Who, indeed 1” was all that Lucy could say. Her soul was 
entranced by the sweet magic of his voice falling once more on 
her ear 

How are you, and how is my good friend Sir John asked 
Antonio, after a short pause. 

“ Papa, when I left England, was laid up with a fit of the 
gent, rie is soon to join me here. By-the-by, he gave me a 


860 


Doctor Artonio. 


letter for you, thinkiog I find you at Eordigliera. Yoti 

shall have it the first tblrg to-morrow morniDgy^ 

Thank you,” said the doctor. “ Hew glad I shall be to 
shake hands again with kind Sir John.” 

“ How do you happen to be in Naples inquired Lucy. “ I 
thought you were at Palermo, and badly wounded, too.” 

“ How do you know anything about my wound ?” said Anto- 
nio, briskly. 

“ I saw Signora Eleonora at Genoa, and she told me. She is 
so happy now — both her sons are with her. She let me read 
your letter to her. She was very uneasy about you, and so 
was I.” 

“ Were you ? Bless her kind heart !” said Antonio. “What 
have I done to deserve two such friends ? Two such form an 
oasis for me in this vile wilderness of a world.” 

“ I won’t hear you speak ill of the world,” returned Lucy, with 
something of her old childlike manner. 

“Very well, I will not — now,” said Antonio. 

“ Tell me about your wound ; how is it ?” 

“ Perfectly healed. It was a mere scratch.” 

“And what made you delay so long writing to Signora 
Eleonora? What excuse have you for leaving your friends 
in anxiety ?” 

“ Constant occupation and worries of every kind. It was very 
wrong of me, nevertheless. To-morrow, I promise, I will send a 
letter to Genoa,” said the doctor. 

Mind you don’t forget, and give the dear old kdy my best 
love. Now, then, tell me all about yourself since we parted — 
about the revolution, and Sicily, and everything. You have not 
forgotten, have you, my old love for asking questions,” added she, 
smiling. 

“ It is as welcome as of old,” he replied. “ You shall hear 
everything about myself and Sicily, but first I must know every- 


Naples. 


361 


thing about you and your health, fair lady,” continued Antonio, 
who had been eyeing his long-lost friend with some anxiety, 
Lucy told him at once all about her health, just as she used to 
do ; and he listened to her with that same interest and attention 
with which he had been wont to listen to her in the wretched 
Osteria del Mattone 

“We will put all that to rights again, with God’s help,” said 
Antonio, cheerfully, when she had finished. “ Fresh air, quiet 
habits and method — ^you know of old, my love of method — and a 
proper obedience to your doctor’s directions (he smiled, and 
Lucy’s eyes assured him there should be no want of this desidera- 
tum), will do wonders for you, as they did at Bordighera.” 

It was now Antonio’s turn to give an account of himself, which 
^e did very succinctly. We shall follow the good example, only 
taking up the subject a little farther back, and touching upon one 
or two points he omitted, just as much as is indispensable for the 
clear understanding of our story. 

When awakened from his fond dream of an hour at Bordig- 
hera, Antonio, as we have said, had sworn in his heart to have 
no other mistress than his country, and to devote to her, and her 
alone, all the energies of his soul and mind ; and when we say his 
country, we mean of course Italy, for Antonio’s patriotism was 
not confined to the isle in which he was born, but embraced the 
whole of the motherland. In pursuance of this idea, he had not 
delayed putting himself in communication with the leading men 
of the Italian emigration, less with the intention of becoming a 
propagandist, and winning over new elements to the liberal cause 
than of combining those already existing, and giving them that 
ntiity of purpose and direction which could alone secure success 
in the day of trial. ,The fortune he had inherited from his mother 
gave our doctor a modest independence, and consequently the 
means of pursuing more uninterruptedly, and fhrthering more 
efficiently, the object he had set before himself. A oedestrian 

16 


m 


Doctor Antonio. 


^our in Switzerland, urdertaken for his health in the spring of 
t843, afforded him an opportunity of knowing, and being known, 
>o a good many of the influential Italian exiles ; and as their 
views and hopes were identical with his, it was a very easy mat 
ter to establish an understanding with them. Antonio spent 
most of his time, from 1843 to 1847, at Turin, where, by his 
gratuitous attendance on the poor, he earned a well-deserved 
reputation for charity and skill, and by several medical pamph 
lets, the name of a profound and elegant writer. About that 
time, we mean the spring of 1847, the news of Sicily began to be 
of serious importance. The Neapolitan government, as before 
remarked, far from yielding any satisfaction to the popular feel- 
ing, roused to the highest pitch by the reforms granted at Turin, 
Florence, and Rome, was combating against it in the most brutal 
manner. An outbreak was imminent at Palermo, so said private 
letters. Antonio, with a few friends, embarked for Malta, and 
from thence, in the beginning of January, 1848, crossed to 
Palermo, where he and his companions iiemained concealed till 
^he 12th of January, when, a tri-color flag in hand, they made 
^heir appearance on the piazza of the Fieravecchia. The cry of 
*^air armi” was responded to from all parts, and the rising began 
in earnest. The struggle was long and obstinate, lasting from 
the 12th to the 29th of January ; but in spite of a reinforcement 
of fresh troops, landed by the Neapolitan fleet on the 15th, and 
a brisk bombardment of the city by the fortress of Castellamare, 
the popular impetus proved irresistible. Stronghold after Jrong- 
hold was carried as if by enchantment, the fortified royal palace 
was attacked with such spirit (it was there that Antonio wa 
wounded), that its garrison abandoned it on the 25th, and the 
troops, driven out of the town on every side, were hotly and tri- 
umphantly pursued. 

The fire of insurrection spread all over the fhce of the island ; 
Girgenti, Catania, Messina, Caltanisetta, Trapani, Syracuse, 


Naples. 


368 


ftud all in rapid succession followed the example set by Palermo. 
Some garrisons laid down arms, some were utterly defeated, 
others retreated into the forts as did that of Messina, which, 
from the citadel, where it was intrenched, kept firing against the 
city. The last town of any importance which joined the moTC' 
ment was Noto. Her adhesion took pla( e on the 4th of Feb- 
ruary, and on the same day the tri-color flag waved from tho 
ramparts of the fortress of Castellamare. It was then that the 
general committee of Palermo, which had been constituted to 
organize and give proper direction to the insurrection, assumed 
the powers and title of Provisional Government of Sicily, with 
the venerable Ruggero Settimo as its president. 

In the meantime, as we have before stated, a new political 
order of things had been inaugurated at Naples, a circumstance 
which gave fair hopes of a speedy arrangement between the two 
countries. In fact, shortly after, negotiations were entered into — 
under the auspices of Lord Minto — between the Neapolitan gov- 
ernment and that of Sicily ; about which it is only necessary 
to remark here that they were far from being handled and 
conducted, on the part of Naples, in that spirit of straight- 
forwardness and conciliation which could alone, if not entirely 
dispel, at least diminish, the distrust deplorable precedents had 
deeply rooted in the minds of the Sicilians. The justice of this 
assertion will be clear to any one who will take the trouble of 
going over Lord Minto’s official correspondence at that time with 
Viscount Palmerston. “ I begin,” writes Lord Minto to Lord 
Mount Bdgecumbe at Palermo, “ I begin very seriously to believe 
that there is no intention here (Naples) to come to a friendly 
understanding, and that all that has been done, or is doing, has 
no other object than to gain time to prepare for hostility, or to 
secure foreign aid.” Such is the sense of his lordship’s letter, 
dated February 2 2d. 

Tired of being kept at bay 1 > no purpose, and aware of thf 


364 


Doct r Antonio. 


expediency of relieving the country and themselves from tht 
dangers of their provisional p >fiition, the General Committee of 
Palermo published at last a d ^claration, in which was distinctly 
set forth that it would not c’:>ntinue to treat as to terms of 
peace unless the sine qua non condition that none but a 'Sicilian 
army should garrison the island, was agreed to. At the same 
time the electoral colleges were i^onvoked for the 15th of March, 
and the 25th fixed for the opening of Parliament. 

The Neapolitan ministry, on their side, in utter despair of 
being able to surmount the difficulties of the situation, resigned, 
and were succeeded by the administration of the 6th of March 
The accession to power of such men as Carlo Poerio, Saliceti, 
and Savarese, bid fair to bring the arduous Sicilian question tc 
a final settlement. A cabinet council was held on the Ith of 
March, the king present — Lord Minto was there also by invita 
tion — and a series of measures was concocted and a number of 
decrees signed, which were thought likely to give satisfaction to 
the Sicilians. The convocation of Parliament already fixed by 
the committee of Palermo, was legalized by an act of convoca- 
tion emanating from the king for the same day ; the Neapolitan 
government granted to Sicily its separate parliament, its own 
separate ministers, with the exception of the minister for foreign 
affairs ; and the most popular man of his day, the incarnation, 
as it were, of the Sicilian revolution, Ruggero Settimo, was 
nominated lieutenant-governor of the island, in the name of Fer- 
dinand the Second. The office of a special minister for Sicily, 
who was to reside at Naples, and be a medium of communication 
between the island government and the king, was created, and 
Commendatore Scovazzo, a Sicilian, appointed to this dignity. 
But the ticklish and most important point, of no^ne but a Sicilian 
army being quartered in Sicily without the consent of the Sicilian 
parliament, was completely overlooked Truly, it does seem 
strange that Lord Minto, in whose presence all these measures 


Naples. 


365 


were decided upon should not have broached this vital question, 
he who, but a few days before, on the 1st of March, had written 
to Lord Palmerston — “ The Sicilians, in seeking to place their 
liberties under the safeguard of their fellow-countrymen, are justi- 
tified by their experience, and, indeed, , there is nothing in the 
character or conduct of the existing government (Naples) that 
merits their confidence.” 

This unaccountable silence about the army — the great point 
at issue, was considered by the mass of Sicilians to be full of 
dark augury, and obliterated all the good effects the above- 
named concessions might have produced. Such, indeed, was the 
prevalent distrust of the Neapolitan government and the fear of 
its treachery, that the only chance of tranquillizing the irritated 
minds was the removal of an army which had for thirty-three 
years held Sicily enslaved, and against which Messina was still 
fighting. Popular feeling declared itself so strongly averse to 
the conditions of the tth March, that the general committee 
pronounced them “ unacceptable, on the ground that they were 
contrary to the constitution of 1812.” Lord Minto then insisted 
on the committee proposing their own terms, which they did, but 
the government of Naples pleaded the impossibility of discussing 
the conditions proposed, without the concurrence of the Neapo- 
litan parliament, which had not yet met. On the day previous 
to the assembling of the Sicilian legislature, there came a protest 
from the king, charging the Sicilians with endangering the resur- 
rection of Italy, and risking the independence and glorious desti- 
nies of the common country.” This protest declared null and 
void, beforehand, all acts that might be accomplished in Sicily. 
There was nothing left for the two countries but to try the for- 
tune of arms. 

The direful prospect of a fratricidal war filled many a noble 
heart on both sides of the Faro with horror and dismay 
'' What 1” cried our friend the doctor, “ while the ancient rally 


866 


Doctor Antonio. 


mg-crj of I^uori it larharo is ringing throughout the Peninsula — 
while war with Austria is rendered inevitable by the heroic 
insurrection of Milan — ^is it possible that there are here two 
noble Italian states bent, not on exerting their utmost energies 
against the common foe, but against each other V’ And, as he 
said this, Antonio buried his hand in his hair. Was there no 
means of averting this most hideous of calamities I Perhaps 
there was. It would not do to sit down and despair. Could 
the Neapolitan government be prevailed upon to accede to the 
one condition, that no army but a Sicilian one should garrison 
the island, no doubt that the terms of the ^th March would be 
accepted, and peace restored between the two countries. Such 
at least was the firm belief of Antonio, and of many of his friends 
of the moderate party, with whom he was debating the point. 
They determined accordingly to make a strenuous effort to bring 
about this most desirable result. Antonio drew up a memorial, 
in which he exposed, with great stringency of logic, the reasons 
which ought to persuade the Neapolitan government to yield on 
the army question, and expatiated at full length on the benefits 
certain to accrue to that common cause, invoked by the king 
himself in his protest, from a renewed understanding between 
Naples and Sicily. This memorial he read to his friends, with 
with whose complete approbation he sent it to Naples. It was 
placed in the hands of one of the ministers, between whom and 
Antonio a mutual esteem and good will existed — the fruit of a 
former long and important correspondence. A few days after 
there came a brief note in answer, the purport of w^hicli was as 
follows : — “ Could the writer of the memorial come to Naples, 
and urge viva voce the arguments he had so admirably expressed 
on paper, ten to one but he would succeed. Never was his 
majesty better disposed to make concessions than at the present 
moment. Not a day to be lost 1” 

And Antonio did not lose a day, but went to Naples. He 


Naples. 


367 


knew very well to what this step laid him open. He knew veiy 
well that his intentions would be misconstrued by party spirit ; 
that his name would be torn to pieces ; that he would be 
branded as a runaway, a renegade, a traitor, but he did not 
care. So long as he had a hope of doing good to his country, 
he was not the man to be deterred by personal considerations. 
So to Naples he went, saw the ministers, saw his majesty, and 
warmly pleaded the cause he had taken up — if to some or no 
purpose we shall see hereafter. 


86S 


Doctor Antonio 


chapter XXI 1 1. 

The 15th of May, 1848. 

Ihe next day, at the same hour at which he used to pay hia 
morning visit at the Osterhi, Doctor Antonio made his appear- 
ance in Lucy’s drawing-room. We must not forget to say, that 
by this time he knew everything about Lucy’s marriage and 
widowhood — knew it from Sir John’s letter, which Lady Clever- 
ton, true to her word, had sont him early in the morning. He 
greeted his fair friend as cordially as ever, and with the freedom 
of old times, began at once to find fault with her quarters. “A 
magnificent and stately suit of rooms,” observes the doctor ; “but 
they will not do for you. You must have fresh air to breathe, 
and something better to look at in beautiful Naples than fine 
houses. There is an hotel not far off, at Santa Lucia, that will 
suit you exactly ; not so fashionable, to be sure,” adds our doi> 
tor, slily, “ as Toledo or Chiaja, but less noisy, and that is no 
Blight advantage. I know the master of the hotel which I am 
recommending to you. He is a most obliging and respectable 
person.” Lucy was ready to make the change. “ Come and 
judge for yourself,” says the doctor ; and away they went. The 
lady was delighted with the situation, commanding, as it did, a 
view of the Bay and Mount Vesuvius, and went into raptures 
about a wide-projecting marble balcony into which the rooms 
op^iied. “We shall fancy that we are at Bordl^hera again,” 


I 


369 


The 15th of May, 1848. 

she said, flushing and looking at Antonio. “To be sure,” be 
answered. “ Suppose we go, while your people are bringing 
your things here, and lay in a stock of plants and flowers, to 
make something of a garden for you ?” And when the carriage 
was so stuffed with roses, magnolias, and dwarf orange trees, 
that our hero and heroine did not know where to find a place for 
their feet, the dilemma made Lucy laugh as she had not laughed 
for many a day. Antonio, just as mindful as ever about her, 
proposed going to buy paper, pencils, and colors — she would 
soon long to be sketching from her window. “ And a piano 
asked he, as they drove past a shop where there were some. 
“ Ah I to be sure,” was the ready answer. “ You must teach me 
more Sicilian songs.” The piano and the drawing materials 
ordered, they went back to the new hotel. 

Plenty of work now for the busy doctor. The plants and the 
flowers to dispose of to their best advantage in the balcony — the 
paint-box and pencils to arrange, so that she may find every- 
thing she wants under her hand — the best light and spot to 
choose for the easel — the best place for the piano, just coming 
in — all of which things he did with th j,t quietness, method, and 
taste, which made Lucy think of her arrival at the Osteria 
And as she now sat at the piano, following his every movement 
with her eyes, and letting her fingers strike the keys, how busy 
the while her thoughts with old days — how vividly memory was 
painting that first evening when he put up the curtains and 
pasted the paper, to her father’s horror, over the crevice in the 
door. How full of gratitude to overflowing her heart I Was 
it the mysterious power of association that taught the listless 
fingers to find the notes of that Sicilian air he had first sung to 
her, and which, from her wedding-day, she had never played ? 

The days of Bordighera are come back again. The same 
flowers, the same sky, the same wondrous nature, even to the 
sweet scents in the air — all that she had admired and enjoyefl 

6 * 


370 


Doctor Antonio. 


there, were hers once more. Better, too, and dearer was the 
return to that wholesome alteration of occupation and repose, to 
the same sweet converse, the same quiet evenings on the balcony; 
but best and dearest of all, was that same vigilant, unremitting 
care, she felt as much hers now as then, the proof, if she wanted 
any, that Antonio, like her, cherished the past. It seemed as 
though her youthful bloom and gentle gaiety would blossom 
anew. Happiness was a better physician than even Doctor 
Antonio. The events of the past eight years faded from Lucy^s 
memory as if they had not been. She could almost have fancied 
she had fallen asleep on that dreary day when she left Bor- 
dighera, to wake again at Naples, after a long, painful dream, 
and find nothing changed about her. 

Antonio prescribed nothing for his patient, but he arranged 
her life for her hour by hour ; so much for walking, driving, 
reading, drawing, and music — very little pianoforte playing, how- 
ever, for it' fatigued and heated her — afresh air, short walks, 
beside the daily drive into the country, no theatres, no crowded 
places, no heated rooms, and if to court she must go, let it be as 
seldom as possible. And yet, with all these restraints and pro- 
hibitions time did not hang heavy on Lucy's hands, nor did she 
ever complain of the monotony of her life ; on the contrary, ail 
her letters to her father had this burden, that she was happy and 
comfortable, and Doctor Antonio the kindest and cleverest of 
doctors, and that Sir John was not to fret at not being able to 
join her so soon a« they could both have wished. 

Antonio, just as he used to do invariably, came to see Lucy 
twice in a day, once in the morning — the physician's visit, as she 
laughingly called it, and the other in the evening — the friend's 
visit, ms thoughts seemed continually occupied about her, and 
his anxiety to comf:)rt and amuse her was unceasing. He 
brought her views, engravings, bis own sketches of the beautiful 
environs which they were to visit together some day, new books. 


371 


The 15th of May, 1848. 

Doth Italian and English, the novels most in vogue, and the 
pamphlets on the interesting topics of the day. Of subjects to 
arouse the curiosity and fix the attention of one so interested in 
Italy as Lucy, there were certainly no lack at that time. The 
late insurrection of Milan and Venice, the entry of the Piedmon- 
tese army into Lombardy, the chances of the war, the internal 
state of the country and of the different parties, Pius the Ninth, 
Carlo Alberto, and the other leading men of the day, the court 
of Naples, the king and his ministers, all and each, in turn, 
afforded scope for Antonio’s quick observation, ingenious views, 
and graphic powers. Lucy had long ago learned to value his 
even flow of spirits, his earnest feeling, that happy combination 
of reason, sensibility and humor, which made his conversation sc 
original, his society so cheering ; but now he was laying bare to 
her all the treasiues of his heart, initiating her into all the mys- 
teries of his ardent soul, making her the depository of his hopes, 
fears, and disappointments. 

He told her how, at the very moment he had fancied all diffi- 
culties to the attainment of the object of his self-imposed mis- 
sion removed, a split took place in the cabinet, and the identical 
person on whom he depended left office ; and the ground Anto- 
nio believed gained had to be re-conquered. Discouraged, but 
persevering still, he had renewed his efforts, when the news 
arrived that the Sicilian parliament had deposed the king and 
set aside all of his race. Antonio would then have returned to 
his country to share her fate, had not the king himself urged 
him to remain ; his majesty professing, in spite of all that was 
actually taking place, the most liberal and conciliatory intentions 
towards the Sicilians. He would send them some day such 
terms as they themselves would be astonished at, and Antonio 
shtmld be the bearer. But that day had never come. “I 
believe he wants to bribe me,” remarked Antonio, “for he hai 
more than once hinted at his wish of having a physidan of 


372 


Doctor Antonia 


merit permanently attached to his person. However, he cannot 
throw dust in my eyes. There is something crooked about him^ 
— a squint in his looks and dealings ; he has a sleepy way of his 
own, with an occasional twinkle in his eye, that always reminds 
me of a cat lying in wait for a mouse. I am greatly mistaken if 
this man does not have all of us hanged one of these days.” 

Lucy would not listen to such predictions, and shut the doc- 
tor’s mouth very effectually by laying her hand on his lips ; she 
was ashamed to see how he gave way to such prejudices. 
“ Well, well,” he would smilingly answer — for more than once 
did Antonio recur to the subject — vedremo. If free in his remarks 
upon the king, Antonio never spared his own party, whenever he 
saw cause for blame. The Liberals of Naples he sometimes 
likened to the dog in the fable, who lost the meat by running 
after its shadow. “ For instance,” said he, “ the constitution is 
not come into action, and they are already loud in requiring its 
enlargement, a parliament has no existence as yet, but on paper, 
and they are in full cry against the house of peers. They cal] 
on the king to send an army into Lombardy to co-operate with 
the Piedmontese, and they hint in all their papers that he is at 
heart an Austrian. Who doubts that he is so ? but where is the 
use of saying it ? Is the upbraiding him with being an Austrian 
likely to make him an Italian patriot ?” 

It was to this very point, that of inducing Ferdinand to take 
an active part in the war of independence, that the new ministry 
directed all their efforts. It was in the hope of contributing 
also in some measure to this desirable result, that Antonio still 
remained in Naples. Besides the furthering the cause of Italian 
independence, so dear to the doctor’s heart, another and not less 
precious advantage would be obtained by the step, — that of ren- 
dering for the present hostilities impossible between Naples and 
Sicily. Time, that great peacemaker, would heal many wounds, 
soften many excited feelings, and pave the way to some ftiturt 


The 15th of May, 1848. 


378 


honorable compromise. The reluctance of the king to part with 
eyen a minimum of the army was extreme. Nevertheless, the 
feeling on the subject was so strong in the capital, the ministers 
BO earnestly averred the impossibility of carrying on any govern- 
ment without some gratification of this feeling, that the king sub- 
mitted at length to the measure. A corps of troops, fourteen 
thousand strong, was sent off to the seat of war, and a part of 
the fleet ordered to the Adriatic, to act in concert with the Sar 
dinian and Venetian naval forces. 

There was nothing after this to detain Antonio at Naples, 
nothing but the sweet spell he was under, unless we add, — 
Destiny. The meeting of the Neapolitan parliament was at hand. 
Might he not as well stay to be present at its opening, and judge 
for himself of its prevailing spirit, and of what it portended for 
the future ? And he stayed. 

The legislative bodies were to assemble on the 15th of May . 
previous to that the cabinet published a programme of the cere- 
mony which was to take place on that day. One of the articles 
of this programme said that the deputies were to swear allegiance 
to the king and the constitution ; but there was no mention of a 
clause inserted in the manifesto of the 3d of April, — the declara- 
tion of the political principles of the cabinet of that date, — which 
conferred on the electoral chamber the right of modifying and 
enlarging the constitution. This omission appeared fraught with 
danger to many of the deputies, who assembled in the town hall 
of Monte Oliveto, there to deliberate on the matter. We regret 
to have to note so flagrant an illegality, so gross a usurpation of 
powder. The chamber df deputies not being yet legally constitu- 
ted, the members had no right to assume the character or 
authrnty of a deliberate assembly. Well, the deputies then 
met ; the oath, as inserted in the official programme, was 
rejected, and negotiations were set on foot with the ministry for 
the purpose of finding a formula satisfactory to both parties 


S74 


Doctor Antonio. 


Deputations kept going up and down from the chamber to the 
ministry, from the mmis:ry to the chamber. This happened on 
the 14th of May. The news of this conflict spread like wildfire 
'over the city, and created a good deal of excitement. Suspicion 
%nd alarm were predominant in people’s minds. Some attempts 
at an open outbreak had even to be lamented. These ominous 
signs made both parties sensible of the urgency of a conciliation, 
%nd after many a negotiation and effort, an agreement was 
entered into that parliament should be opened without any oath 
being asked or taken. 

It was with a heavy step and downcast heart, that, early in 
the m(3rning of the following day, the 15th of May, Antonio bent 
his way to Lucy’s lodgings. Lucy had expressly wished him to 
call betimes, and report to her about the state of affairs. She 
knew nothing of the happy settling of the difficulties, it having 
only taken place far in the night. The streets through which our 
doctor had to pass were crowded to an extent very unusual at 
that early hour, and the looks and bearing of the crowd were 
anything but agreeable. Knots of persons were forming here 
and there, — an infallible symptom of impending trouble, — and 
the doctor noticed individuals passing from group to group, and 
addressing them in whispers. It was clear that agitators (insti 
gated by whom ?) were busily at work. In spite of the sad. fore- 
boding which filled his heart, Antonio approached Lucy with his 
usual serene composure, and, in reply to her eager inquiries, gave 
her the assurance that any cause for alarm had disappeared, and 
that all was going on as well as could be wished. 

And now,” said Antonio, smiling, “ we will let polities alone; 
I am thoroughly weary of the subject. Let us talk of old times, 
— ■ of our peaceful, verdant Bordighera. I wish I was there still, 
I was so happy there.” 

‘'And so was I,” replied Lucy, with a deep blush. “I must 
tell you,” she went on, after a little hesitation, “ that T have 


The 15th of May, 1848. 


never given up the idea of building myself a pretty cottage in one 
of its quiet nooks, and going to live there. The woman can 
now realize the whim of the gid. What do you say to the 

A very good idea,” said Antonio ; “ but are you sure that 
you will not get tired of a life of retirement ; that you will not 
some day regret your fine acquaintances, the advantages of rank 
and wealth, the attractions of London, the court ” 

“ I don’t care for rank and court,” interrupted Lucy, “ so long 
as papa and — ^you are with me.” Antonio began stroking an 
imaginary beard, and then suddenly got up and took some 
strides up and down the room. 

“We will speak of this presently,” said he, returning, and 
calmly resuming his seat by her side. “ Do you remember this 
day eight years ago ?” 

“ Do I not ? I recollect it as if it were only yesterday. I 
could even draw you at that moment, when you said to me, 
• Now, Miss Davenne, suppose you were to try and walk and 
she tried to imitate his way of speaking. “ The very tone of 
vour voice still rings in my ears.” 

“ Dear, noble friend I” exclaimed Antonio ; “ never — no 
never was the least show of kindness on my part lost on you. I 
confess I was dreadfully afraid at that moment, and then in p^ro- 
portion happy.” 

“ Yes, afraid of my being lame,” said Lucy, “ and happy that 
[ was not so.” Antonio looked at her with surprise. 

“ Now, say it was not so, if you dare,” insisted Lucy, play* 
fully. 

“I am not going to deny it, indeed, — so far I must render 
iustice to your penetration.” 

“ Young ladies,” pursued Lucy, in the same sportive tone, ‘ are 
aot always either so blind or so silly as they choose to appear. 
C Devar was taken in with ‘ nothing but a sprained ankle pap8 


376 


Doctor Antonio. 


vras, but not his daughter. I knew from the first that leg 
was broken.” 

Antonio opened his eyes as wide as they would open. 

“ What depths of dissimulation I discover in /ou,” hrv said at 
kUst, laughing. “ It seems now you took me in. You positively 
knew your leg was broken, and said nothing about it, even to me.” 

“ No,” returned Lucy j “I was resolved you sh4)uld have 
the full benefit of your kind deception. I allowed you to cheat 
me as much as you pleased.” 

Antonio answered nothing, but took the small white hand that 
was hanging over the arm of her chair, took it in his, and slowly 
and deliberately raised it to his lips. 

The sharp distinct report of a volley of musketry, rent the 
still air, and made every window and door rattle. 

Antonio was on his feet in a moment, as pale as if every one 
of the bullets fired had gone through his heart. 

“ What can that be ?” asked Lucy, in mortal alarm. 

“ Nothing of consequence,” said Antonio, with a mighty effort 
to look unconcerned. “ Probably only some government pow- 
der expended in saluting the opening of parliament. By-the-by, 
I must not be too late.” 

As he took his hat, another discharge was heard, almost 
instantly followed by a brisk running fire. 

“ There is fighting going on, I am sure of it,” cried Lucy, ter- 
rified, and shaking all over. “ Do not go, for mercy’s sake I 
What is the use of your going ? What can one man do, and 
alone ?” 

“ Satisfy his own conscience that he has done all in his power 
to prevent civil war,” replied Antonio, with tranquil determina- 
tion. “ Let me go, I beseech you.” 

“You shall not,” cried Lucy, now quite beside herself with 
terror, and interposing her slight form between him and tht 
door. Antonio looked at her. 


377 


The j^jrh of May, 1848. 

“ 1 must go,” lie p:ai j. It was as if fate had spoken, Lucj 
felt at once unequal to struggle with that iron will. She joined 
her hands like a child about to pray, looked up in his face, and 
said, 0 Antoo’o I” There was a world of things in this simple 
arpeal. 

The Italian drew her to him, pressed her closely to his bosom. 
“ Lucy,” said he, solemnly, “ this is no moment for many words. 
(The Sring never slackened while he spoke.) Lucy, I love 
you — I have loved you dearly all these long eight years — I shall 
love you to my grave. But my country has claims on me prior 
to yours. These claims I vowed more solemnly than ever to 
respect on that day, when prejudice, armed with a pedigree, 
stood between you and me On that day, I pledged myself 
anew to my country. Let me redeem that pledge — let me do 
my duty — help me to do it, Lucy 1 Lucy, my noble friend, help 
me to be worthy of you and myself. In the name of all that is 
holy, let me depart without a painful struggle I” 

The heroic spirit that dictated his self-immolation in the 
sweetest moment of his life, shone out in his face and thrilled in 
his voice. He stood transfigured to more than man in Lucy^s 
eyes. Her more feeble nature raised itself, in this supreme 
inslant, to a height at which every sacrifice of self is possible. 

“ Noble heart !” she said, with a burst of enthusiasm, “ go ! 
and God be with you and preserve you. I will try to be worthy 
of you and she loosened her hold of him, 

“ And God bless you for these words I” cried Antonio, almost 
unmanned, clasping her hands and holding them to his heart. 
“ God bless you 1 — ^your love shall be my buckler 1” So saying, 
he laid her on a sofa, and whispered, “ You shall soon see me 
again, or hear from me.” He stood for a second to look on the 
now dejected prostrate form before him, passed his hand over his 
eyes, and went without another word. 

In the ante-room he found Miss Hutchins in hei usual place 


878 


Doctor Antonio. 


He asked her for some ink and paper, and wrote a few lines^ 
which he handed to her. Go now at once to your lady,” h€ 
said; “she is not well. Should she feel worse, send for tfe 
physician whose name and address I have just given you.” 

“ Are you going away, sir ?” asked Hutchins, in right of her 
calling, at once understanding the reason of her ladyship’s 
illness. 

“ No, not going away exactly ; but I may be prevented from 
coming here for some time. See after Lady Cleverton, Good- 
bye, Hutchins ;” and Antonio held out his hand to the faithful 
waiting-woman. Hutchins’ face began to twitch nervously, but 
in obedience to his orders, she went to her mistress. Then 
Antonio, seating himself at the little work-table, hastily wrote 
a short letter, sealed, and addressed it, and, without venturing a 
glance at the closed door, he put on his hat, and was gone. 

During this time, hundreds of people, in a state of distraction, 
were running through the streets, detachments of soldiers were 
marching in every direction, the city was covered, as if by magic, 
with barricades, fighting was going on at many of them, in short, 
civil war, with all its horrors, was raging in beautiful Naples. 
Whose sacrilegious hand had kindled the torch of discord ? 
Which side had fired the first shot ? The republican, obstinately 
bent on destroying the monarchy, as afterwards affirmed by the 
court party ? or the court party, which, as pleaded by the libe- 
rals, had, in cold blood, laid the train, trusting to a chance spark 
igniting it, and scattering to the four winds of heaven the liber- 
ties just snatched from despotism’s iron grasp ? No one knew 
then, and to this day it remains a secret. 

Contemporaneous events are scarcely ever traceable to their 
sources, obscured as they are by contemporaneous passions. 
That the republicans should deliberately have challenged the 
government seems scarcely credible in the teeth of a fact, allowed 
by all impartial writers, and avouched for by eye-witnesses, viz., 


37 $ 


The 1 5th of May, 1 848. 

<he insignificance of the republican party, if, indeed, any such 
w’ere to be found in Naples in 1848. The cry of “ Republic’’ 
never passed the lips of the combatants, and no acknowledged 
republican character ever figured among the many prisoners 
afterwards brought to trial on political charges. If the adage, 
“ he did who gained by it,” proved always true, it would go far 
to back the accusation against the executive power, that of hav* 
hig courted a collision of which it took such advantage and made 
^uch profit. But it is not our intention to urge any conjectural 
evidence, and we will give the executive the full benefit of the 
absence of direct, substantial, irrefutable proof. We would fain 
be just even to King Ferdinand the Second of Naples. There 
were reasons enough for the catastrophe of the 15th May with- 
out its being necessary to assume that it was prepared or pre- 
meditated on either side. 

A political paper of the'day styled it, as justly as comprehem 
sively, the loss of equilibrium between two fears {Jo squilibrio 
due paure), and this was literally the case. Ever since the 29th 
J anuary the supporters of divine right and the partisans of con- 
stitutional freedom had eyed each other with undisguised feel- 
ings of hatred and distrust. The people had not forgotten that 
shots and thrusts of the bayonet had more than once answered 
their cries of ‘‘Viva Pio Nono ! Viva la Riforma!” The king 
had as little forgotten that the constitution had been wrested 
from him by force ; he, for ever on the qui vive for his menaced 
prerogatives, they equally on the alert for their liberties in 
jeopardy. The ill-timed encyclical letter of the 29th April, the 
fatal act by which Pius the Ninth inaugurated his secession from 
the national movement, was a powerful wedge in widening the 
breach. ' The one party hailed it with elation and revived hope, 
the other openly manifested their resentment at the letter itself, 
and at the hopes it encouraged. Things were at this pass whet 
there occurred the unlucky misunderstanding between the execu 


380 


Doctor Antonio. 


tive and the deputies as to the form of oath. Here, then, wc 
have the spark that fell on the combustible materials so long 
gathering. The attitude taken by the deputies seemed to the 
executive the harbinger of revolutions ; the demeanor of the 
executive appeared to the deputies to denote an impending coup 
d^etat. Without taking into account the lawless passions, always 
abounding in large communities, and which float on the surface 
in times “ that are out of joint,” there was no lack of ardent 
spirits on either side to fan the smouldering fire into a blaze, 
The conflagration spread far and wide, until the whole city was 
one flame. 

What is the matter ?” asked Antonio, when he reached the 
street, of a priest who was hurrying past. 

“The king is arrested, — the heir-apparent shut up in a con 
vent, — the chamber of deputies has declared itself in per- 
manence.” 

A young man now came rushing along with frantic gesticula- 
tions. Antonio stopped him also with the same query. 

“ All the deputies assembled have been massacred, — those on 
their way to the house are being hunted down like wild beasts, — 
martial law is proclaimed. Oh I that I could but find a musket I” 
cried the maddened youth. 

Our doctor believed neither statement, but dreaded the worst 
from both. He crossed the Piazza Reale, where he found an 
imposing force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, drawn up in 
front of the palace, and hastened on in the direction of the 
firing ; but he had not gone a hundred steps in Via Toledo, when 
his progress was impeded by a barricade, which was erecting. 
He did not stop to ask questions, but forced his way over the 
obstruction, and ran as fast as he could to another barricade that 
he had descried from a distance, and from whence came the con- 
tinuous sound of firing. The majority of its defendants evidently 
belonged to the educated class ; they were mostly very young 


The 15th of May, 1848. 


381 


men, many scarcely beyond boyhood, and altogether not more 
than forty in number The assailants, owing to the height of the 
barricade, could not be seen from where Antonio stood, but the 
well-kept up regular fire showed that it proceeded from a dis 
ciplined body of considerable strength. 

Antonio hesitated Tor one second as to the possibility of anj 
words of his being listened to, but seeing the utter hopelessness, 
under the circumstances, of any attempt at conciliation, he looked 
around in search of a musket. The sight of a man lying at hia 
feet, seriously wounded, instantaneously changed the current 
of his thoughts. There were other and more sacred duties foi 
him to perform than killing or being killed. He knelt down by 
the side of what was a mere lad, drew out his case of instru 
ments, and set about examining and dressing the wound 
Another and another of the combatants rolled on the ground, 
some past all earthly help. Antonio was now in his element. 
He stripped off his coat, tore it into bandages, and, entirely 
absorbed by his attendance on the wounded and dying, forgot 
there were such things as bullets hailing round him. A loud 
shout from the defenders of the barricade caused him to look up 
at last ; there they stood facing him, waving their hands and 
gesticulating. He turned his head to see what they were point- 
ing at. A thrust f^m a bayonet sent h’’~' ^ver wel^^wiag in his 
blood. 


Doctor Antonia 


882 


Chapter XXIV. 

Tidings. 

Lucy’s distraction during tlie fatal affray, the sickenii.g alter 
nations of hope and despair through which she had to pass 
during each day of the seemingly endless week that followed the 
catastrophe, — the gradual sinking of her heart at failure after 
failure of every fresh attempt to ascertain Antonio’s fate, — all 
this we must leave to the reader’s imagination. To describe 
such a state would be a too heart-rending task, and one to no 
purpose. Who can paint to the life agonies of suspense and 
terror such as hers ? Words — any words must fall short of the 
sad reality. While there was anything to do, — while there were 
fresh channels of information to be sought after, — while there 
was any call for exertion, Lucy’s body and spirit kept up wonder- 
fully. But when all sources within her reach were dried up, — 
when every inquiry, and every possible research, had been made, 
— ^when nothing remained for her but to cross her hands over her 
bosom and say to herself, “ Antonio is dead, else had I seen or 
heard of him,” — then the fragile frame and enthusiastic spirit 
alike gave way. Even in this crisis, the lost Antonio’s care and 
love were around Lucy’s sick-bed. Hutchins, left to her own 
responsibility, at once sent for the physician whose address 
Antonio had left with her, and whose assiduity and skill proved 
him worthy of Antonio’s confidence. 


1 idings. 


88a 


For ten whole days Lucy^s life and reason hung on a thread. 
Then there came an almost imperceptible amelioration, and with 
it some intervals of consciousness, during which, Lucy fancied she 
saw a form moving noiselessly about the room, strangely resem- 
bling Speranza. Of course, it was not she. How could it be 
Speranza ? It must be fancy. Lucy had seen so many strange 
things and persons during these last days. Still this vision did 
not leave her as the others had done — it haunted her with a per- 
tinacity that made her heart beat very fast. She said nothing, 
but watched it with evident pleasure. She came to see it with- 
out any wondering. Perhaps she imagined she was still at the 
Osteria with her father, or at the Post-house at Mentone. The 
occasional faint murmur of names on the pale lips indicated some 
delusion of the kind. Poor Lucy I her head was so confused, and 
her sight so dim. 

Late one night she awoke, after some hours of refreshing sleep, 
with her ideas unusually clear, and, meeting two large black 
eyes watching her fondly, as in days of yore, bW suddenly asked, 
in a whisper, — “ Is that you, Speranza ?” 

“ God bless you, my dear, ^ dear mistress, it is your own 
Speranza,” and down went the loving creature on her knees, 
pressing her lips on the emaciated hand held out to her ; “ here 
I am, and here I stay, never again to leave you. But you must 
not talk, not even one word more,” and, arranging the pillows, 
the kind creature gently turned the pale face away from herself, 
Lucy silently complied with the injunction ; she did not want 
any explanation ; she was soothed and calmed by having her 
humble Italian friend by her side. Oh, glorious power of affec- 
tion, blessing and blessed 1 

But by what mysterious agency had Speranza come to be by 
Jiucy’s sick bed just when she was most needed ? By a most 
simple and natural one. Speranza was the last legacy of kind- 
ness Antonio had it in his power to leave Lucy. So thoroughly 


384 


Doctor Antonio. 


did he understand her, that he instinctirely knew what would 
best comfort her should any evil befall him. In such an event^ 
would it not be Lucy^s consolation to have some one to whom 
she could talk of him, and be sure of sympathy ? So he wrote 
those hasty lines to Battista’s wife, in which he told her, that 
unless she heard from him again within the course of a week 
after receiving his letter, she was to embark immediately for 
Naples, and go to the hotel he named in his note, where she 
would find Lady Cleverton. Speranza acted up literally to the 
instructions received, and reached Naples just in time to take 
her place, as a tender and affectionate nurse, by the bedside of 
her unconscious mistress. Those who sow in kindness reap also 
in kindness. 

Lucy’s convalescence was long and difficult. It was full three 
weeks before she could sit up in bed, and a month more went by 
ere she was able to rise for an hour ; and double that time was 
required to gain strength enough to bear a drive in the open air. 
The first going out had almost produced a relapse — the sight of 
the streets, of the military, of smiling women leaning on the arms 
of friends or husbands, while she felt so desolate and bereaved — 
was a trial very hard to bear. Many remarked that ghastly 
face peering so eagerly into every passing coach. What foojsh 
hope could hers be ? Now, indeed, it became evident how well 
Antonio had done in summoning Speranza to Naples. Who else 
could have understood or soothed Lucy at this time ? Starting 
out of long fits of silence, Lucy would sometimes talk by the 
hour of Antonio. Speranza knew, if no one else did, how good, 
how kind, how noble he had been. Speranza could understand 
what a friend Lucy had lost. Struggle against her grief I Why 
should she ? Where should she ever find his like again ? Who 
had ever been to her what he had been ? She had a right, and 
ought to mourn for him. Had he not saved her life ? Had he 
not thought of her and her comfort to the last ? At other times 


Tidingb. 


885 


she would go back to her accident, and begin relating all that 
had passed at the Osteria, at Lampedusa, at Taggia, laughing 
as she talked — a laugh more painful than weeping — and seem- 
ing to have quite forgotten the awful 15th of May, until some 
chance word silenced her, and made the large tears spring from 
her eyes. They were not like common tears, swelling and over 
flowing ; Lucy’s really started from out of the eyelid. 

Lucy always spoke of Antonio as of one who was no more, — 
occasionally alluding, but faintly and vaguely, as if she could not 
articulate the necessary words, to finding where he had been 
buried. But Speranza would in no way agree to considering 
Antonio’s death as certain. No doctor of laws could have 
argued the case more dextrously than this uneducated woman. 
Her tact, her acuteness, were admirable in themselves, but they 
were adorable when one knew that all this intelligence was the 
offspring of a grateful heart. 

Taking the worst for granted, would Speranza say, and that 
Doctor Antonio had not made his escape, as such a clever man 
would be sure to. do, why was he not as likely to be a prisoner 
as dead ? Had not “ her cara^ cara padrona” read in the news- 
paper that hundreds of persons had been arrested on and after 
that dreadful 15th May ; and where was the wonder if, among 
such numbers of persons, the name of one should not yet have 
been found ? It was all for the best ; for if he was not men 
tioned, the greater the chance of his getting out of prison with- 
out being tried. Some day or other “ the padrana ” would see 
that Speranza was right. Doctor Antonio was not the sort of 
man to be lost in that ridiculous way. The signora knew very 
well that he was one of the king’s friends, and some day the king 
would ask what had become of him, and then all the prisons 
would be searched, and he would be found. 

“ If he were alive, he would have contrived some way of let* 
ting me know,” persisted Lucy. 


17 


386 


Doctor Antonio. 


“ Bat, vsignora, how can he find messengers if he is in prison^ 
with chains on his hands and feet ? But give him time,” con- 
tinued Speranza, with a most confident air ; “ and oh, car a, car a 
; SigTwra Padrona, don’t you believe that the Holy Virgin will 
take care of such a good, good man? We must have faith.” 
And Speranza’s hint was taken by Lucy. She prayed, poor 
soul, and tried hard to bear up. 

Misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. It does 
more — it often acquaints him with unexpected friends. Lady 

Cleverton had bethought her, that, through Mr. X , the 

young attache, she had some slight chance of getting at informa- 
tion as to any newly-made political prisoners, or some return of 
the killed — and with small expectation of any good result — for 
she looked with unfavorable eyes on her soi-disant cousin, she 

sent for him on the morning of the Itth of May. Mr. X 

was shocked at the havoc in her appearance ; and the kindly 
tone of his voice in addressing her, led her, instead of making a 
ceremonious request, to rush into confidence. She told him of 
the obligations she was under personally to Doctor Antonio — of 
how much Sir John also esteemed him. She. drew a beautiful 
little picture of his life as parish doctor of Bordighera, and of 
how she had met him again at court, with the king leaning oi, 
his arm. She related, with simple pathos, how he had left ner 
on the 15th, not in the fury of party spirit, but to risk his life in 
striving to prevent brother slaying brother, and, without know- 
ing it, betrayed that she thought this Italian the best, and 

wisest, and noblest of men. She had requested Mr. X to 

come to her, that she might ask his assistance in tracing out 
Antonio’s fate. She had no other friend in Naples on whom to 
rely. Would he help her ? 

It is a fact honorable to human nature, that this appeal 
sufficed to make the foppish young man espouse Doctor Anto- 
ftic’s cause as warmly as though it had been that of his own 


Tidings. 


887 


brother ; and that he proved to our heroine, throughout this sad 
period of her history, the most disinterested, discreet, and ser- 
viceable of friends. There was in the young gentleman’s heart, 
amidst much conventional alloy surrounding it, a golden mine, 
which only needed a chance touch to give to view its rich ore 

Mr. X had worked hard, but vainly, to get some clue to 

Antonio’s fate. He had used every official and extra official 
means which his position afforded him, or the kind hints of hia 
chief pointed out. He had forced all his high and low Neapoli- 
tan acquaintances to contribute, knowingly or unknowingly, to 
his purpose ; he had made friends with army officers, police offi- 
cers, employes of every station and color — and one and all with a 
cleverness, perseverance, and prudence, that was never once at 
fault. He had, also, during Lucy’s long illness, kept up an 
almost daily correspondence with Sir John with much diplomatic 
skill, in order to tranquilize the old man, whose journey to 
Naples was, by his doctor’s orders, indefinitely postponed. 

Late events had much conquered the young gentleman’s 
antipathy for those he had once sneeringly called the ‘^Avvocatif* 
and, more wonderful still, transferred a great portion of it to the 
party which had formerly engrossed the whole of his sympathy. 
As chance would have it, the outbreak of the 15th May had 

caught and forcibly detained Mr. X at a house close to the 

barricade of St. Ferdinand, the spot at which the most desperate 
struggle of the day had occurred. Here he had witnessed the 
savage acts committed by the soldiery ; he had seen men who 
had laid down their arms, and were crying for quarter, shot by 
the score — ^he had seen fathers, mothers, wives, and children, on 
their knees, pitilessly butchered — he had seen brutal cru dty that 
made his hair stand on end. All of generous and mar ly in hia 
nature rose up in arms at the spectacle, and nothing bu* the cer 
tainty that such execrable conduct would meet with exemplary 
ponishment, kept his indignation within bounds Bu^ ^'^hen he 


888 


Doctor Antonio. 


saw, by the oflScial Gazette, the perpetrators of these horrors 
praised and rewarded, when he had it from unimpeachable 
authority, that the king, in person, from the lobby of the royal 
palace, had never ceased, by word and gesture, to instigate the 
troops to the slaughter, urging the artillery below, whom humane 
and excellent officers were seeking to restrain, to use their field- 
pieces — when he heard and saw all this, his whole soul revolted 
from the party who had so lately monopolized his partiality. A 
cause thus defended was not the cause he had upheld. 

Six months had elapsed, and poor Speranza was at her wits’ 
end how to inspire with new hopes (hopes, alas I that she no 
longer felt herself) her unhappy mistress, whose gloom deepened 
more and more, when a few lines in an unknown hand suddenly 
changed this gloom into unspeakable joy. A letter had been left 
at Lady Oleverton’s door, the contents of which were as follows ; 

Your friend is alive, but a prisoner. If you have any person 
of whose fidelity you are sure — mind, I say sure — send him to me 
for further particulars. He will find me, the day after to-mor- 
row, at dusk, at the entrance from Rome by the barrier Capo di 
Chino. Let him hold a white handkerchief in his hand Not even 
the air you breathe must suspect that there is any communication 
between you and me. It is only by strictly observing this precau- 
tion that you have a chance of being of any use to your friend 
in the future. My every step and act is watched by the police.” 

He was alive 1 — Oh, God be thanked, he was alive 1 What 
mattered it that he was a prisoner ? — ^he was alive ! She would 
force open his prison doors — she had interest and influence — she 
would write to England, — the ministers there would do some- 
thing for Lord Cleverton’s widow — she would so pray and 
entreat, no one would have the heart to refuse her ; her father, 
too, had powerful friends — he would get the English government 
to interfere. Yes, she wculd find a way to wrench Antonio from 
the tyrant’s grasp. Alar ’ poor, warm-hearted Lucy I 


Tidings. 389 

Her faithful ally, the attache, went, at her request, to the 
place of rendezTOus, and found an elderly gentleman waiting 
there, who began by telling him what we already know, that a 
party of soldiers had surprised from behind, and placed between 
two tires, the barricade where Antonio was attending to the 
wounded. The gentleman went on to say how the soldiers gave 
no quarter, and how Antonio, felled by a thrust of the bayonet, 
owed his life to the presence of mind with which he had counter- 
feited death. The corpses, and among them the doctor, had 
been thrown in a heap into a cart, and then conveyed to a guard- 
house close by, to be kept there till evening. So infuriated 
were the soldiery, that Antonio had had no choice but to con- 
tinue his feint of death, and it was only when, late in the night, 
he was being carried with the dead to the burial-ground, that he 
had no other alternative but to show some signs of life. Part of 
the escort were for qualifying him at once for the destination of 
the other bodies, but there were some more humane present^ 
whose opinion prevailed, and, accordingly, our wounded hero was 
lodged in the prison of Santa Maria Apparente, which, luckily 
for him, was on the road of the lugubrious convoy. He was 
*eft for a week in the company of common felons, and then trans- 
ferred to the Gastello dell’ Uovo, and put au secret. While in 
his tirst place of continement, Antonio had never ceased moaning 
and complaining of his wound — fortunately a slight one — beg- 
ging, for God’s sake, that he might have a surgeon to dress it, 
if only once ; but he spoke to the winds. Nor were his piteous 
appeals to his new jailer in the castle more successful ; he might 
as well, indeed, have addressed the stone walls of his dungeon. 
One day he asked, in a faltering voice, for a confessor, declaring 
that he felt as if he were dying, and the turnkey gave him for 
answer that he was quite at liberty to do so, when and how ha 
pleased, but no confessor should he have. The explanation of 
all these groans, lamentations, and prayers, was Antonio’s all 


890 


Doctor Antonio. 


absorbing thought of how to let Lucy know :hd. he was ptill 
alive. He hoped to find in the surgeon or confessor one Chris- 
tian enough to take a message to her, apprehension and anxiety 
for whom swallowed up all fear for self. 

The strict severance from all human intercourse, except that 

the jailer, inflicted on the political prisoners, was not merely 
for the security of their persons, but with the aim and intention 
successful in many cases, of impairing their mental faculties, and 
weakening their powers of resistance. But Antonio’s equanimity 
never failed him ; and his wound, with no other medicament 
than cold water, healed fast. Six w^eeks after his removal to the 
castle, the prisoner w^as taken before a judge-inquisitor for 
examination. Here, as always, pre-occupied by the recollection 
of Lucy, he had recourse to the expedient of firmly declining to 
answer any question unless previously allowed to communicate 
with a legal adviser. Remanded and re-remanded, threatened 
or cajoled, still Antonio persisted in his silence. The struggle 
between judge and prisoner lasted four full months, but at last 
Antonio carried his point. A counsel was assigned to him, one 
and the same with the writer of the anonymous letter to Lady 
Cleverton, and the person now giving these details to the 
attache. Antonio had been fortunate, for this lawyer, though 
timid by nature, and rendered more so by the difficulty of the 
times and the pressure of a large family, was yet an honest, 
liberal man, and with a sense of his professional duty high 
enough to postpone to the interest and safety of a client all per- 
sonal considerations. 

The attache, as it had been agreed upon between him and 
Ijady Cleverton, alluded to a possibility of obtaining foreign 
diplomatic interference, and hinted, also, that no sum of money 
would be thought too great if an escape could be brought about. 
“ Beware of trying anything of the sort,” whispered the barrister, 
in great alarm. “ An attempt at flight would infallibly fail, an# 


Tidings. 


891 


onlj jerve to aggravate the situation of your friend, dangerous 
enough already, I assure you. You would easily find jailers or 
understrappers of the prison to accept your bribe, who, within 
half-»n-hour would have denounced the briber to the police. 
No such thing, for God’s sake I You have no idea of the cor- 
ruption which prevails in this unhappy country. The noisome, 
filthy dens that serve for prisons are infested by a set of fiends 
in human shape, the outscourings of jails, who pride themselves 
in being spies and traitors. As for diplomatic interference, 
unless backed by broadsides from your ships, worse than useless 
as it would only heighten animosity, by making the prisoner a 
disputed prey. We have but one safe auxiliary — time. Time 
will mature events, and these may force a change in the policy 
of this country. Much depends on the issue of the new cam- 
paign said to be at hand between Sardinia and Austria, — much 
on the attitude of England and France. A considerable period 
will elapse before the trial of your friend and his co-accused can 
take place. The Istruzione, by whi«h I mean the preliminary 
proceedings on the affair of the 15th May, is scarcely begun, and 
bids fair not to be soon terminated. In the meantime, we have 
the chances of life for us ; what is uppermost to-day may not be 
so to-morrow, and something may occur to put an end to all 
state prosecutions. At all events, by patience, we shall gain one 
point, that passions which, at this moment, are boiling, will be 
cooled down. My best advice to you and Lady Cleverton, and 
to all who wish well to Doctor Antonio, is, to keep quiet, and to 
wear a mask of indifference. I hear that many of the English 
have left off going to the court since the fatal 15th of May 
You must not do the same. Let none suspect your disapproba 
tion of the government. Go to court, frequent all official cir 
cles, hear the prisoners abused and calumniated without so much 
as wincing. See and listen to all that is going on. You may 
thus be able to give me some useful information. This is the 


DoctOi \ntonio. 


only way in which, at present, you can serve your friend. On 
my part nothing shall be wanting, and I shall let you hear of 
any circumstance worthy your attention. 

The account brought back by the attache of this interview 
was a great damp to Lucy’s elation. The dictates of prudence 
and experience jarred too much with her feverish impatience to 
have Antonio free, and the man who could preach about time 
and patience, while a dear friend was in prison under a capital 
charge, could not but be taxed with lukewarmness. She took 
the advice, however, about appearing at court and mixing in 
society. When thus enabled to judge for herself of the general 
tone of feeling towards the unhappy prisoners — when she daily 
heard men of honor and education reviled as assassins — when she 
daily heard it more than hinted that it was high time to have 
done, once for all, with such canaille — when the representative 
of a great power, sounded on the subject, answered, that, having 
no influence whatever on the resolutions of the Neapolitan 
cabinet, he could not make a demand, which, in all probability, 
would be unheeded — when Lucy became aware of all this, then, 
and then alone, she was willing to admit the wisdom of the man 
who had recommended patience and reliance on the action of 
time. 

Not long after there came tidings to the attache, the essence 
of which was this : — A paper in Antonio’s handwriting had 
been seized at the house of the co-accused — the memorial we 
saw him write at Palermo — and in which he had said, “ that 
the hour had come for all the honest friends of liberty and 
independence to unite and form a holy phalanx.” The doctor 
lad been accordingly examined, and, from the tenor of the 
queries put to him, it seemed but too probable that an accusa* 
tion would be levelled at him, as being one of the founders of 
the secret sect whose preparatory process was in actual pro 
trress. 


Tidings. 


89S 


The next communication received from Ant onions counsel, and 
the last which we think necessary to record, was merely to con- 
firm the preceding supposition. Antonio was to be prosecuted 
as one of the originators of the Secret Society of the Italian 
Unity. The epoch of the trial would depend much upon the 
turn of political affairs in Italy and abroad. 

Time went on, and did mature events — none, alas I calculated 
to better the prospects of political prisoners anywhere. The 
defeat of the Piedmontese at Novara, the subjugation of Sicily, 
effected by a Neapolitan army, the restoration of Pius the Ninth 
to despotism and the Vatican by French bayonets, the occupa- 
tion of the Koman Legations and Tuscany by Austrians, and, 
lastly, the fall of heroic Venice, are the salient points of the 
Iliad of evils which the space of a few months had heaped on the 
unfortunate Peninsula. Keaction rode rampant everywhere but 
in Piedmont. That country was, indeed, a bright exception ; 
there the loyalty and good sense of the young sovereign, and the 
loyalty and good sense of the people, had succeeded in mainLiin- 
iug public liberty and private security. For Naples we h ive 
the reverse of the medal. There the hour had come for thi 
government to reap the harvest of the Moodv seed sown Oi thi 
15th of May. 


394 


Docto" Antonio 


chapter XXV. 

Vse Victis. 

Beaftifxjl Parthenope looks coquettishly’ at herself in her 
lovely bay, pure as crystal. The sun pours down on the citj 
luminous torrents, that carry light and heat into the remotest 
recesses ; an unceasing human tide rolls over the sunny quays 
and lava-paved streets, in hot pursuit of business, amusement and 
pleasure. Everything is bright, everybody smiling, as though 
Liberty had not been bled to death but yesterday, — as though 
the constitutional parliament had not been sent to hold its sit- 
tings in State prisons, — as though, at that very moment, Pro- 
curator-General Angelillo was not asking for two-and-forty 
heads 1 

Only forty-two to begin with 1 The rest will come in course 
of time. The scales of Neapolitan Tnemis run no danger of 
becoming rusty for lack of use. No one need be uneasy on that 
score. The number of the imprisoned, for political offences, in 
the happy kingdom of the Two Sicilies, in this year of grace, 
1850, is said, on good authority * to be somewhere between 
fifteen and thirty thousand. Assuming the lowest number as the 
one nearest to probability, -^assuming, that out of these fifteen 
thousand, two-thirds will be disposed of in a summary paternal 
way {tconotnicoj they style it most elegantly),— that is, without 


* Oladstone. Two letUrs, 


Vse Victis. 


395 


any form of trial whatever, there remains a balance of fivc 
thousand human beings amenable to justice ; enough, it must be 
allowed, to afford occupation and sport to all the high courts 
and lower courts of the kingdom, and to the habitual frequenters 
of all those courts, for some years to come. There are, among 
others, from four to five hundred individuals imprisoned for the 
affair of the 15th of May alone, which promises a monster batch. 

The one with which we have at present to do is more remark- 
able for the great variety of the social elements of which it is 
composed, than for its number. All stations, from the loftiest to 
the humblest calling, have contributed their contingent to the 
formation of this group. We count among the accused an ex- 
secretary for the home department, an ex-magistrate, an ex-chief 
of division in the ministry of public instruction, — all three of them 
deputies ; two former captains in the army, the representative of 
a ducal family, two private gentlemen of education and fortune, 
one of whom has declined a diplomatic post ; several barristers 
and physicians, four priests, an arch-priest, and sundry small 
tradesmen, shopkeepers, and artizans ; a former gendarme, a 
porter and a domestic servant. They all stand charged with 
belonging to an anarchical secret society, some of them sub- 
sidiarily with having fought at the barricades in May, 1848, — an 
excellent precaution for detaining them for another trial, in case 
of their being acquitted on this one. A particular charge is 
brought against a few of having attempted to destroy the exist- 
ing ministers, and other persons, by means of terrible explosive 
agents, — a single bottle, which has exploded in the breast- 
pocket of one of the accused without injury to himself or any one 
else. A blacker set of villaius never disgraced the dock of a 
court, if we are to believe Procurator Angelillo. A more 
wronged, more ill-used party of honorable citizens, never cried to 
Heaven for vengeance, if precedents and presumptive evidence 
go for anything in this world. Ts it among men of such public 


896 


Doctor Antonio. 


and private character as Carlo Poerio, Settembrini, and Pironti 
— among such historical names as that of Carafa — or among 
such gentlemen of education and fortune as Nisco, Gualtieri, 
Braico, etc. — such dignitaries of the church as the arch-priest, 
Miele, that anarchy recruits its supporters, and crime its abet- 
tors ? What would you say oh, English reader, to a charge of 
treason brought against some of your most eminent and respected 
statesmen, leading members of your houses of parliament, — 
judges, nobles, churchmen, and gentlemen? Well, the men 
whose names I have just written down, and whom you see intro- 
duced into this gloomy hall of the Palace of the Vicaria, manacled 
and escorted by gendarmes, these men stand as high in the social 
scale of their country, rank as high as to character and position, 
as any of your English statesmen, members of parliament, magis- 
trates, nobles and gentry. 

This is the famous State prosecution of the sect of the Italian 
Unity, which wrung from a noble-souled English statesman a cry 
of indignation soon re-echoed by all Europe. The court that sits 
is the grand criminal court of justice, the highest tribunal in the 
kingdom. It sits not as an ordinary, but as a special court, with 
a view to despatch — ^by which is meant, that any of the forms 
invaluable for the defence, may be dispensed with at the pleasure 
of its president, Navarro, — “ the delicate, scrupulous, impartial, 
and generous Navarro.’^* The lugubrious drama is about to 
begin. The scanty space allotted to the public is crowded, and 
so is the hemicycle, reserved for privileged spectators, among 
whom we perceive a closely-veiled lady. The judges are in their 
seats ; in front of them, on a raised platform, sit the accused. 
They look pale and worn. The place they have been brought 
from, truth to say is none of the healthiest, especially at this 
time oi the year in Naples, the month of June. No less thai 


* Gladstone. 


Vae Victis. 


397 


one thousand three hundred and eighty human beings are cooped 
up, one upon another, without air or light, amidst beastly filth 
iL the contiguous prison of the Vicaria, where our forty-two ar« 
confined. We must also take into account a previous detention, 
for none less than ten months, — for many much longer, — which 
they have already undergone. Nor must we forget the proper 
degree of wholesome discipline applied to body and mind, with 
which imprisonment on a political charge is invariably seasoned 
at Naples, — a double treatment, for the praiseworthy purpose of 
eliciting truth, whereof we may hear enough by-and-by for our 
edification. Evil-minded people might call it “torture,” but 
torture is abolished, we know,— -at any rate, the name is. No 
wonder, then, if the accused look worn and sickly. But if the 
flesh be infirm, the spirit that dwells within is full of strength and 
energy ; at least the air of quiet determination about them — the 
quiet determination of a garrison who are aware they have no 
quarter to expect, and prepare to sell their lives dearly — would 
seem to intimate as much. 

On the names of the prisoners being called over, one of them, 
Margherita (a custom-house officer), rises to letract his former 
declaration, extorted, he says, through phy&ical and moral coer- 
cion, and suggested by the Judge Inquuiton himself. Another, 
Pittera (a writing-master), declares, that when taken out of a 
ciiminale (an underground cell, almost or wholly without light), 
tu be examined in the Gastello (delP Uovo), he was, in conse- 
quence of constant privations and repeated menaces, overcome 
by mental stupor. A third, Antonietti (a custom-house agent), 
follows, saying that, when interrogated, he was so exhausted 
in mind and body he would willingly have signed his own 
sentence of death. If any wish to know more distinctly what 
kind of pressure it was that could thus unnerve and unman far 
from sensitive, weakly persons, Pironti, and many besides him, 
r tell us the particulars. Pironti, a late deputy and magis 


398 


Doctor Antonio. 


<Tate, relates having been in solitary confinement in a dungeon 
where he had to lie on the naked ground, amid every sort of 
vermin, for forty-two days. His hair and beard, by special 
orders, were shaved by a galley-slave. He then underwent an 
insidious examination from the commandant of the castle, who 
tried first threats, then wheedling, promising him the royal 
clemency, to induce him to make revelations, i. e., turn king’s 
evidence. De Simone, a perfumer, was threatened with two 
hundred blows of sticks, soaked in water. Faucitano (a contract- 
builder, he of the explosive bottle) was dragged to the Prefec- 
ture of Police by twenty Swiss guards, six police-inspectors, and 
twelve shirri, who beat him, spat on him, tore his clothes, hair, 
and beard. He was kept for two hours at the police-office, 
bound with wet ropes, then conducted to the castle, thrust down 
into a dark, damp, criminale, without even a handful of -straw to 
lie on, and detained there for nine days with no food but musty 
bread, no drink but fetid water. His first deposition was forced 
from him by the alternative of receiving two hundred blows. Muro 
(a servant) was kept for five days in complete darkness, and when 
on hie way to be examined, a lieutenant in the army, who knew 
him, told him, as if out of compassion, that unless he put his 
name to whatever the commissary desired him to sign, he would 
be ruined for life. On being asked how it happens that he now 
maintains that he does not know Pironti, after having, when first 
confronted with that gentleman, at once recognized his person, 
Muro replies that the commissary had told him beforehand to lay 
his finger on the one of the four individuals standing in a row 
who had no moustache ; and he had obeyed. Sersale, a mer- 
chant, underwent such prolonged fasting, that his health is incur- 
ably undermined. (The voice of the prisoner is faint, and he can 
hardly stand.) His wife was kept in prison for five days on 
bread and water, in order to frighten her into deposing to the 
truth of the charge against him. Cocozza, a solicitor, signed his 


Vae Victis. 


399 


^tjterrogatory without reading it over — that being the condition 
his release from a horrible criminale. The commissary 
r’Mja.red him to depose to Nisco (one of his co-accused), being 
the cashier of the sect of the Italian Unity. Caprio, a carpenter, 
wsh". urged by the commissary in the presence of the head jailer, 
uf the turnkey, Carmine Bisogni, to denounce Nisco, and to 
atciaro on oath, that he (Caprio) had received from that gentle- 
man six thousand ducats, for the purpose of bribing the troops, 
t»nd was promised his liberty if he did so. Errichiello, the 
master of a cafe, had been offered an employment worth twelve 
ducats a month, if he would second the views of the commissary 
bono, a chemist, was not once examined during the ten months 
of his incarceration. 

Carafa, of the Dukes d’Andria, rises to tell a sad tale. 
W hen first arrested, his mother was seriously ill. From that 
time he had received no news of her. He had even been given 
to understand that all his relations had renounced him. Signor 
Beccheneda, a cabinet minister and director of police, had come 
to visit him in prison, and assured him that his matter could be 
easily arranged, if he would only give testimony against his 
co-accused, Poerio, on a certain point. On Carafa’s refusal, the 
minister had taken leave of him with these words — “ Very well, 
sir, you wish to destroy yourself — I leave you to your fate 
One night the unfortunate young man had fainted away, and in 
falling to the grouud had injured his right eye. He called for 
help, but no one came to his assistance. It was whispered 
about that he was to be transferred to a criminale, full of most 
filthy vermin, and that his doqm was irrevocable. After a 
month^s imprisonment, under the combined influence of moraJ 
torture and of feverish impatience to hear of his mother, hia 
heart failed him, and he wrote a letter, wherein he deposed 
against some of his co-accused — wrote it at the suggestion of the 
judge inquisUore in the house of the commandant of the castle. 


400 


Doctor t\ntonio. 


ander the eye of the commissary. He now retracts all he had 
written in that letter ; nor does this public recantation suffice to 
set his conscience at rest. He feels the desire and necessity ol 
making further amends for his fault. He wishes to ask for for- 
giveness, which he now does, in the presence of the judges and 
the public — of his dear friends, pointing to the other prisoners. 
His voice thrills with an emotion that touches the hearts of all 
present. 

So much for the fair and humane treatment of prisoners, 
accused of political offences lefore their trial. Now for a single 
illustration of the humane manner they are dealt with during 
their trial. 

The court has resumed its sittings, which had been suspended 
for a fortnight on account of the serious illness of one of the 
accused, Leipnecher, late a captain in the army. The president, 
Navarro, impatient to go on with the cause, had early that 
morning, Itth June, summoned the seven medical men attending 
Leipnecher, and made kncwn to them that the government had 
come to the determination that the trial should go on at any 
rate. All he required of them was an answer to a single ques- 
tion : — Could Leipnecher be brought into court without danger 
of immediate death ? After having timidly stammered some 
observations, the doctors answered that Leipnecher had not any 
fever, and though certainly suffering from nervous irritation, this 
need not prevent his being present at the, sitting, provided he 
was carried in a chair to the hall, and properly taken care of 
when there. The president then assumes his seat in court, and, 
upon a sign from him, a sedan-chair, surrounded by numerous 
gendarmes, is brought into the hall ; the prison attendants lift 
out of it a sick man, who is utterly unable to support himself ; 
they carry him in their arms like a child, and place him on a 
chair, arranging two pillows to support his head. The names o? 
the prisoners are called over, Leipnecher^s among the number 


Vae Victis. 


401 


but l.e does not answer. He cannot — lie hears nothing. At 
last, urged by his companions, who succeed in rousing him from 
his torpor, he exclaims, wandering in his mind, “ The physicians 
will not cure me I” Pretending that these words are meant aa 
an accusation against the medical men, the president, Navarro 
desires them to be written down in the minutes, and decrees that 
Leipnecher shall be the first called up for examination. During 
the reading over of the notes of his previous answers before the 
tnquisitore and the Grand Criminal Court, the unfortunate man 
gives no other sign of life than some mechanical motions. The 
reading ended, the president asks the accused if he has an} thing 
to add, retract, or modify. The prisoner utters no sound. The 
president desires LeipnechePs counsel to answer for his client. 
This the counsel declines to do, alleging the character of the 
examination to be one entirely personal to the accused. Navarro 
insists on the counsel going close to his client, communicating 
the questions, and transmitting to the court whatever answers 
he may receive. The counsel, evidently in great emotion, 
approaches Leipnecher, and immediately perceives that it is 
impossible to attempt any orai communication with him. The 
poor creature’s forehead is covered with a cold sweat, and the 
panting of internal agony alone shows that he is not already a 
corpse. The procurator-general, coming to the assistance of the 
puzzled president, observes that the physicians’ report having 
been made early in the morning, fever might have come on since 
then, and suggests the expediency of having the medical men 
sent for to give their opinion again. In the meanwhile the cause 
can go on. After a considerable delay, two out of the seven 
physicians of the morning’s report appear in the hall, accom* 
panied by five strange medical practitioners. They are sworn, 
and, after examining the patient, answer, “ That he has fever, 
and that it is on the increase.” The procurator-general wishes 
to know whether the sick man could not remain in court for 


Doctor Antonio. 


another hour without positive danger. The reply is, “ That 
there would be no instant danger, but that the state of the 
patient is such as not to allow of his remaining longer where he 
is without serious injury. Upon receiving this opinion, the pre- 
sident declares the sitting closed. This took place on the Itth 
of June, 1850 ; on the 22d of the same month Leipnecher was 
dead. 

Let us now gather at random a few instances of the impar- 
tiality of the court, and of its religious respect for the liberty of 
defence. 

The subsidiary charge against Poerio is, that he fought 
furiously at the barricades on the 15th of May, 18-18. He asked 
permission to prove, that during the whole, of that day he was 
detained by the duties of office at the council of ministers, 
whence he accompanied the actual minister of war. Brigadier 
Carascosa, to his (Carascosa^s) house. He proposed also to 
prove by unexceptionable witnesses, and by a document of cer- 
tain date, viz., a report against himself, all written in lervclino’s 
hand, that he, Poerio, knew lervolino to be a paid instigator at 
the time when he (Poerio) was alleged to make lervolino his 
political confidant. The court refused both requests. 

Pironti is charged with having received, towards the end of 
October, 1848, a letter full of high treason, at his own residence, 
Yico^ Ecce Homo, No. 9. He demands to prove that he had not 
returned to Naples from Santa Maria of Capua before the 2d of 
November, and that it was not before the 4th that he had taken 
up his residence in the house, where^ according to the accusation, 
the letter had been given to him towards the end of October. 
He is ready to make good his assertion by the testimony of those 
who moved his furniture, by that of his fellow lodgers, and by 
that of his landlord. The court rejects the demand. 

Bocchino, a, grenadier in the Royal Guard, a witness for tna 
prosecution against Cocozza, is heard. Though he has been 


Vae Victis. 




decorated by the pope, Bocchino’s moral character is none of 
the highest. It results from certificates, signed by the colonel 
of his regiment, that the witness has suffered punishment, for 
various causes, eleven times — for having left his post, for thefts, 
for insubordination, and for attempted rape ; he has been twice 
sentenced to be bastinadoed, once to thirty, the second time to 
sixty blows. This man deposes to having taken a letter from 
Mazza to Cocozza — both of them among the accused. He went 
to Cocozza, gave the letter into his hands, heard nothing about 
revolutions or sects, and remembers nothing more. The presi- 
dent exhorts him to tell the whole truth, but Bocchino persists 
in saying that he knows nothing more. Then the president orders 
the witnesses long and circumstantial written declaration to be 
read. This Cocozza’s counsel opposes, and with great energy 
claims the observance of the law. Navarro desires him not to 
interrupt the court^ but to sit down. At this point, Settem- 
brini, boiling with indignation, rises and asks to be re-conducted 
to his prison. Since even this mere sham defence is to be 
thwarted, he will not, he says, legitimate by his presence such a 
continual trampling under foot of all laws, both human and 
divine. Navarro growls some inarticulate words, and, with the 
snarl of a mastiff, orders Settembrini to hold his tongue. Set- 
tembrini, however, replies with warmth. Navarro repeats his 
threats of having him punished for his temerity. All the 
accused rise to their feet with one accord. The general emotion 
is at its height. 

When calm is restored, Poerio gets up and says that public 
discussion is the crucible in which truth is tried ; through it, all 
the facts gathered in the preparatory written process, whether 
incomplete, altered or exaggerated, are re-integrated in their 
purity ; through it, all the spurious elements are eliminated. It 
is therefore, logically indispensable that any witness called intc 
A public court should himself relate and arrange the facts that 


«04 


Doctor Antonio. 


are within his cognizance, and when his oral declaration be not 
in the whole conformable with his written deposition, it is an 
absolute necessity that the witness’s retractions, variations, 
reticences and hesitations — in a word, all the circumstances 
capable of affording a criterion of his sincerity should be clearly 
registered. If witnesses were only brought forward to give a dry 
confirmation of their written declaration, then the end and aim 
of the law would be missed, and public debates would amount to 
nothing more than to a faint rehearsal of previous private exami- 
nations. 

Cocozza’s counsel quotes Articles 248, 249, and 251 of the 
Code of Penal Procedure, and submits to the court that a wit 
ness called into a public court must give his oral testimony with- 
out assistance from his written one, that every addition, retrac- 
tion, or modification of his former sayings, must be registered in 
the verbal process, and that only after this being done, the 
president may refer him — if the president judge it opportune 
BO to do — to his written declaration. The public prosecutor 
opposes these demands as unfounded. The Grand Criminal 
Court retires, and after an hour, returns with a deliberation, 
which, admitting that all the additions, retractions and modifi- 
cations of witnesses are to be exactly set down, declares, at 
the same time, that the president alone is the best judge of the 
opportune application of the rule. The court, in consequence, 
rejects the demands. Thereupon the examination of the wit- 
ness Bocchino is resumed, his written declaration is read over to 
him, and he repeats and confirms it, sentence by sentence. 

Malacarne — also a grenadier of the Guard — another witness 
for the prosecution, deposes against two of the accused, Cocozza 
and Brancaccio. Cocozza, rising, protests that he never saw the 
witness in his life, and desires that the witness should look at 
him and say whether he recognizes him, Cocozza. President 
Kavarra makes a sign to his witness to turn round, and asks him 


Vse Victis. 


405 


?fhether the one of the prisoners now standing be Gocozza or not 
The witness, turning round, and pointing to Gocozza, exclaims, 
“ That is the man !” The other accused, Brancaccio, calls upon 
the witness to identify him also, but uses the precaution of 
remaining seated. Navarro, before allowing the request to bv 
complied with, orders Brancaccio to stand up. Upon which the 
latter observes, that if he stand up, there is not the least doubt 
as to the witness singling him out from among his fellow-prisoners. 
Navarro replies that no one can be permitted to keep their 
seat while speaking in presence of the court, and that, there- 
fore, he cannot admit the identification unless the prisoner rises. 

Calanero, another grenadier, and witness for the prosecution, 
deposes to having spent a whole day with the accused, Colombo. 
Mazza, one of the prisoners, rises, and in behalf of Colombo, 
who remains seated, demands that the witness should identify 
Colombo’s person. Navarro remarks to Mazza that he is not 
Colombo’s mouthpiece, and that, if Colombo has any request to 
put forward, he must stand up himself. Mazza retorts, that if 
Colombo, who is to be identified, were to rise, how could any 
doubt exist as to the identity of his person ? Colombo’s counsel 
demands, on behalf of his client, that the confrontation should 
take place without his client’s rising. The Procurator-General 
maintains that the witness having indicated the accused by his 
surname and Christian name, to wit, Salvatore Colombo, the 
demand of the said prisoner’s counsel could not be admitted, 
since, according to the law, the act of confrontation was to 
take place only when the person was vaguely indicated. 
Poerio remarks that the opposite system had been acted upon 
on the preceding day — vide the case above quoted — when a 
witness had designated Francesco Cocozza by both his names, 
and yet the President had. nevertheless, authorized his identi- 
fication. The Grand Criminal Court withdraws, and, after as 
hour’s deliberation, rejects the demand of Colombo’s counsel 


m 


Doctor Antonio. 


Now for the morality of some of the most important witnessei 
for the prosecution. 

Among them stands conspicuous Mauro Colella, one of the 
witnesses against Poerio. It results from the deposition of a 
priest, named Mingione, that this Mauro Colella, while at dinner, 
last year, in Easter week, at deponent’s house, confided to him 
that a denunzia — a false charge — was being concocted against 
Imbriani’s brother-in-law, explaining that he alluded to Carlo 
Poerio. Some time after that,v Colella, who lives opposite to 
deponent Mingione, called to him from one of his windows, and 
putting one hand across the top of the middle finger of the other 
— a significant gesture — said to Mingione, “The bird is limed” 
{Vamico c’e cafitato). “ Who ?” asked Mingione ; and Colella 
answered, “ Poerio,” adding, “ I’ll just come over and tell you 
all about it.” In fact, he did go to Mingione’s house, and after 
relating Poerio’s arrest, said that they had entangled that gentle- 
man in such a net that he would infallibly lose his head. And 
on Mingione’s asking what could have induced him (Colella) to 
denounce Poorio on such false grounds, Colella replied that it 
was because Poerio had been a deputy and a defender of the 
nation (sic), and would kill everybody if not killed himself ; and 
also because he, Colella, had been promised for so doing, a place 
in the police worth twelve ducats a month. These statements 
of Priest Mingione, given on oath before the Great Criminal 
Court, are confirmed and corroborated by the evidence of Mim 
gione’s mother and sister. Colella, according to his fede di per- 
quisizione — a certificate referring to the judicial antecedents of a 
person is thus called — has been prosecuted for thefts, comnaitted 
in his convent, while he was a friar, for perjuries, cheating at 
play, blasphemy, and he is now in prison under a charge of 
violent rape. 

Francesco Paladino — since dead — witness for the prosecu- 
tion against Nisco, is noted in his fede di perquisizione for thirty 


Vse Victis. 


107 


two oflfences — coining false money, forgery of bank-notes, 
cheating at play, extortions of money on false pretences, 
swindling, etc. 

Gennaro Fiorentino, another witness for the prosecution, 
comes in for eight charges of thefts, perjuries, and frauds. 

Antonio Marotta, witness against Priest Nardi, is noted in 
his fede di perquisizione for false testimony, and perjury in a 
state prosecution against Canon Colamella, and is actually 
under warrant of arrest from the Great Criminal Court of 
Potenza, in spite of which he remained free. This man is the 
very Brutus of informers. To denounce Priest Nardi, his cousin, 
was such a mere trifle for him, that he had followed it up by 
the heroism of denouncing his own two brothers. He glories in 
having done so, as it was in the king’s service. The fact is, 
that Marotta’s two unfortunate brothers, unable any longer to 
bear the disgrace brought on an honorable family by his 
infamous conduct, had turned him out of their house, and he, 
out of revenge, had became the accuser of his own blood. 

Remains lervolino, the keystone of the accusation against 
Poerio, Settembrini, and Nisco. We will devote a separate 
chapter to the evidence of this consummate rascal, and to the 
various incidents to which it gave rise. They occupied the 
whole of the fourteenth sitting of the court, than which none 
gives a more comprehensive idea of the whole proceedings, 
none brings out in stronger relief the wickedness and ground- 
lessness of the accusation, the noble, attitude of the defence, 
the cool ore-determination to condemn on -the part of the 
judges.* 

• Tho particulars contained in this and the following chapter are abridged from a 
oorrMpondcnce published at the time by a moderate and ably conducted periodical of 
Turin, the RUtorgimento the only newspaper, that we know of, which warmly took up 
the cause of conculoated innocence and humanity, and gare all the publicity at its di» 
posal to the prosecution against Poerio and consorts. The veracity of the correapondant, 
a consdentious eye-witness, may be relied on. 


Doctor Antonio. 




Chapter XXVI. 

Continuation 

The phoenix of informers, the spoiled child of the prefectart 
of police, a smartly-attired, middle-sized, pale-looking man, 
opwards of thirty, is introduced. A long visage, slightly pitted 
with the small-pox, a pair of little unexpressive eyes, that seem 
to look nowhere, a low narrow forehead, make him anything but 
prepossessing. In he comes with an air of assumed innocence 
and timidity, highly creditable to his powers as an actor. lervo- 
lino is incontestably the one of all his worthy associates in infamy 
and degradation who best earns the meagre pittance of twelve 
ducats, or about two pounds a month, allowed him by the police. 
Unlike Gennaro or Marotta, who declaim their calumnies, ler- 
volino lets his drop from his lips modestly, hesitatingly, like one 
who recollects with difficulty; but once put on the right track by 
a frown or a word from the president, he goes on coolly and 
methodically, but with decision and fluency. 

He deposes, that finding himself in great want, and without 
work, the goldsmith who usually employed him having none to 
give him, he went to Baron Poerio, then a minister of the crown, 
to procure from him what he calls un pane sicuro — a certainty of 
bread. Seeing that, in spite of the promises made him, there 
was no office forthcoming, he drew the conclusion that his 
Cailore must be owing to his not belonging to any sect ; where- 


i 


Continuation. 


409 


apon he urged Poerio to enrol him, the deponent, in the sect to 
which Poerio belonged. The minister received his overtures with 
pleasure, and sent him with Attanasio, a friend of Poerio, to 
Nisco, who, in his turn, sent him to Pacifico, at a cafe situated 
near Santa Brigida. Pacifico introduced lervolino to a person 
named P’Ambrosio, who took him to his own house, and there 
initiated him into the sect of the Italian Unity. But of the oath 
and signs imparted to him then and there, lervolino has no 
longer any recollection. In this way, he became intimate with 
Poerio, and knew all Poerio’s familiar friends — Nisco, Attanasio, 
the Reverend Father Grillo, Cassiensis, and a jailer called the 
Cartonajo — all of them sectarians. Poerio made him acquainted 
with Settembrini also, but of the lattePs friends, he, deponent, 
knows nothing, as Settembrini never spoke of them to him. 
lervolino, moreover, went frequently to Nisco^s house, and saw 
those intimate there. Poerio and Settembrini intrusted him with 
several affairs, or commissions ; thus, Settembrini gave hkn, for 
distribution, twenty printed copies of an invitation, or address to 
the public^ not to smoke, or put into the lottery, or pay the 
taxes j and Poerio one day desired him to go and verify whether 
the flag in front of the royal palace was white or tricolor. Poerio 
told him also on another occasion, that the members of the sect 
were to have medals whereby to recognize one another, and that 
many of these were being struck ; and that he, lervolino, should 
have a good number to distribute among his proselytes. Settem- 
brini also told him that a movement was at hand ; that Garibaldi 
was expected, and asked him how many associates, and what 
number of muskets he could muster ; and, on hearing that 
lervolino had five or six muskets, and thirty associates on whom 
he could depend, Settembrini showed great satisfaction. This 
was Oi‘ course mere boasting, and only said, by way of winning 
tho confidence of the Sectarians ; for lervolino, far from seeking 
collect people to fight against the king, had repented having 

18 


4:10 


Doctor Antonio. 


ever figured among his majesty^s enemies ; ano ased^ foi two 
months previous, to make his report at the police-office, vhere he 
had also deposited four incendiary proclamations, handed to him 
by Settembrini some days before this latter’s arrest. He recol- 
lects nothing else. 

The president bids him recall to mind his written deposition, 
and exhorts him to tell the whole truth. lervolino declares that 
he has said all he recollected, but that he is ready to ratify all 
he has written, because it is the truth. lervolino’s first declara- 
tion, subsequent ratification, delation {denunzia), and thre? 
secret reports, are then read. He cannot say what was the 
tenor of the oath he took, or what were the signs taught him. 
having forgotten both. He recollects the signs being changed 
every now and then. He always received them from Settem- 
brini, who was continually recommending him to mix among the 
men of the people {jpopolani) belonging to the Sect. Who these 
“ men of the people” were, he could not say, no one in particular 
was pointed out to him. To the question what rank he held in 
the Sect ? he answers that he was only a common member. But 
on being made to remark that his reply is in contradiction with 
his statement on the subject in his written declaration, he recol- 
lects that in fact he was promoted by Nisco to the rank of Uni- 
tarian. Questioned again as to the oath he took, all he remem- 
bers, he says, is, that the oath was for the constitution. Ques- 
tioned again, if this was all, and if a change of the form of 
government was not implied by the oath, he replies, that at firsT 
the oath was to support the constitution, but that afterwards, as 
he learned from other associates, it aimed at the estabhshmeni 
of a republic. — (Here, as usual, when the longed-for word is pro- 
nounced, the president shows marked approbation and satisfac- 
tion). lervolino does not recollect the signs of recognition first 
imparted to him, but, among those communicated to him later bv 
Settembrini, he remembers the words, — “We a-e all childrem 


Continuation. 


411 


and the mother is Rome,” and a sign whict coL.4ist;,d it. touching 
the nose and the left eyelid with the indt./: of the right band. 
(These are the signs given in the printed indictment). He waa 
never present at any meeting of the Sect, nor does he know 
whether there ever were such meetings. 

Poerio’s counsel demands the insertion in the minutes of 
lervolino^s statement, that the oath required of him was for th( 
Constitution. Both the president and the public prosecutoi 
oppose the demand. The counsel insists on the point. Then the 
president asks lervolino again about the form of the oath, and 
lervolino repeats that the constitution was sworn to, but he 
heard it said that later they must come to a republic ; and in 
these terms, the answer is registered in the minutes. 

The accused Poerio rises, and begs the president to ask 
lervolino whether all his secret reports to the police be inserted 
in the process. The query is put, and answered in the affirmative 
by lervolino. 

“ This man lies,” rejoins Poerio ; “ for I hero present to the 
court a report entirely written in his hand, ai.d directed to a 
functionary of the police named Gennaro, — a report full of the 
most disgusting calumnies against Settembrini and myself. I 
call on the delator (denunziante) to say if this re^mrt be his, and, 
in case of his denying it, I demand that the idenuty of his hand- 
writing may be legally ascertained.” 

Navarro expresses his astonishment at hearing that a written 
report against the accused Poerio should be ii that person’s 
hands. To which Poerio answers, I am not boui d to say how 1 
obteined this document. It is a secret confided to my honor, and 
one that will remain buried in my bosom as long ls I live. The 
document is of use for my defence, and I here exhibit it on my 
own responsibility, and in the exercise of a right bew towed on me 
by the law. This must suffice for your watchful juslk e, Mr. Pre- 
sident, as well as to make you aware that, even ii these most 


412 


Doctor Antonio. 


disastrous times oppressed virtue has more friends than th« 
wicked can belieie.” 

lervolino is desired to examine the document. He comes "or* 
wa,rd with an unsteady step and blanched cheek, looks at the 
paper, carefully scans the address, then says, ‘‘it ought to be 
directed to Don Gennaro Cioffi,” thus supplying the missing 
family name on the address, the paper having been torn away in 
that place. lervolino reads, and turns and re-turns it several 
times, then falters out that he does not recollect having written 
it, but thinks it is his. At last, after being pressed by question 
on question, he says, “ that paper is mine, but the address does 
not seem to me in my handwriting.” The paper is read aloud by 
the secretary. 

Poerio rises again and speaks. “Among the grounds of 
defence — 'posizioni a discarico — that I submitted to the court, 
there figured one, by which I propose to prove, that, so far back 
as the month of May, 1849, I was perfectly aware that this man 
was a secret agent of that impious faction which is set upon 
ruining me, let it cost what it will. L then offered to show to 
♦he court a report against me, WTitt^a and signed by this man, 
and I requested that tw^o highly honorable persons, and most 
excellent friends of mine, to whom I had given that nauseous 
paper to read as soon as it reached me, might be examined. But 
the court thought proper to reject this particular request, together 
with the others I had made. When called up for examination, 
I did not fail again most respectfully to urge the admission of my 
previously rejected grounds of defence, in particular of this last 
one. I was again refused ; yet the court, in its high wisdom and 
justice, reserved to me the right of asking for the hearing of the 
two witnesses indicated by me, whenever the use or necessitv of 
their being heard should be made manifest in the course of the 
public debates. I demand that this right be now made good. 
If Divine justice has permitted me to be a target for the arrows 


Continuation. 


413 


of oalumny, it has also brought forth from the womb of (^alumny 
itself the means of my justification. The high priest of human 
justice, ye cannot grudge me, ye will not take from me this 
benefit bestowed by Providence.” 

Poerio’s counsel backs his client’s demand with legal argu 
ments. The public prosecutor opposes it. Poerio, rising, says, 
“ It is with a most grieved spirit that I am forced to remind the 
honorable magistrate, that when I first produced this identical 
ground of defence, the public prosecutor opined for its admission. 
How, then, can the public prosecutor now urge the rejection of 
that same posizione a .which he admitted at a former 

period — urge its rejection now that the document is proved 
authentic ?” 

The president here sharply admonishes the speaker, and 
reminds him that he is not entitled to censure the court. The 
procurator-general was in the exercise of his right when he 
admitted, as now when he rejects, an identical ground of dis- 
charge, for his opinions are always conscientious and conformable 
to law. 

The accused answers, “ The honorable procurator-general can- 
not belie me when I state a positive fact, an undeniable fact, 
when 1 show him to be in flagrant contradiction with himself. 
This I do not assume to censure, for I know my duty, but I may 
be allowed to deplore it, for I know my right also, and how to 
exercise it, subject to and under the control of your impartial 
justice.” 

The court reserves its deliberation on this point. 

The president asks Poerio if he has any remark to offer touch- 
ing lervolino’s declaration, and the accused answers thus ; — 

Most honorable president, the denunzia (delation) is auda- 
ciously calumnious, and :he very police judged it to be so. This 
jvretch, urged on by spite, by misery and wickedne is, elaborates 
• charge., and presents it on the 19th April, 1849. It is 


414 


Doctor Antonio. 


read at the police office, and no heed is taken of it. lervolinc 
renews his attack, and is not listened to. Not before the 16th 
of May, that is, after the lapse of nearly a month, is this informer 
called on to ratify his affirmations. He is asked for corroborat- 
ing witnesses ; he has none. Commissary Maddaloni dismisses 
him, begins no process, has no thought of arresting me, and this 
at the moment when the police unhesitatingly imprisoned, not 
only the pretended chiefs, but even the simple pretended mem- 
bers of the pretended sect. When I was arrested, two months 
after, it was not in consequence of lervolino’s delation, but, as it 
appears from a certificate inserted in the process, on the ground 
of some one at Archpriest Miele’s house having said he had 
heard that Baron Poerio and Duke Proto were the chiefs of the 
sect. But even then. Commissary Maddaloni did not institute 
any investigation relative to lervolino’s diminzia, for Nisco, w’ho 
had been eight months in prison, was not once examined about 
the sect, and all the persons named in that denunzia, and put 
forward as my accomplices and sectarians, Attanasio, D’Ambro- 
sio, Pacifico, and Father Grille, continued to live unmolested in 
Naples. Nor does the police believe in lervolino’s envenomed 
accusation at this moment, since but lately it granted a free pass- 
port to one of the denounced parties, the honorable Father 
Grille, now at Rome. lervolino’s calumnious charges were only 
disinterred at a later season, to rerve that evil inclination of 
police commissaries, who like to give themselves the airs of 
judges-inquisitor, and to swell the processes with the secret 
information of their spies. But it is not my present purpose to 
confute the falsehoods gathered together in that wretch’s infam- 
ous reports. 1 shall only, with your leave, most honorable pre- 
sident, put some questions to him. Where had I first the honor 
of making his precious acquaintance ? Was he introduced to me 
by any friend ? Did he come alone or in company 

lervolino replies that he sought Poeri.*, w'^n he was secretary 


Continuation. 


ilb 

k. f the home department, at his private house, to present a peti* 
tivBi to him. He was neither introduced, nor recommended by 
any one. 

P*^erio again : — ‘‘ This man equivocates on one point. He did 
not Cv,me to my house, but to my office ; however, this matters 
little. He asserts that he urged me, while I was a constitutional 
minister of the crown, to enroll him in a certain sect. How did 
he know one of the king’s ministers to be a sectarian ? How did 
he dare make a request to a high functionary of the state, which 
might cost him dear 

lervolina answers, that it was a fact publicly known, that 
Poerio was a member of a Sect. He further recollects now, 
that his solicitations about entering the Sect did not take place 
immediately after his introduction to Poerio, as perhaps appears 
from his first delation, but at a later period, and when Poerio 
was no longer minister ; certainly not before the 16 th May, 
1848. 

“ But bow, then, could Poerio, if out of ofiice, be of use to the 
ienunziank V’ 

Answer — By recommending him to the other ministers. 

Poerio.- The denunziante affirms that he was a daily visitor 
at my liouje. Where did he wait ? At the street door, in the 
hall, the ante-chamber, or in my own room ?” 

Answer.- -In the beginning, sometimes at the street door, or 
in the hall, or ante-room, but, as he became more intimate, he 
used to sit in Poerio’s bed-room. 

Poerio. — ‘ Such being the case, the deponent will certainly be 
able to name ^ome among the deputies, peers, magistrates, minis- 
ters, who honored me with visits.” 

Answer. — lervolino took no trouble to know the names of 
Poerio’s visitor, excepting those of the four he wrote down in 
Ids denunzia. 

Poerio. — “Bnt if he was accustomed to spend all hb 


m 


Doctor Antonio. 


mornings in the hall, he must have come to know some of the 
heads of the different bureaus who called daily for my signa^ 
ture.’' 

Answer. — lervolino saw numbers of persons, but never madft 
inquiries as to their names. 

The president asks the accused, Nisco, if he has anything to 
say. Nisco answers, “ I have to observe, in the first place, that 
it seems strange, to say the very least, that I should not once 
have been examined as to this pretended Sect. I solemnJy 
declared that I never was a Sectarian ; a villain starts up, and 
charges me, behind my back, with being so ; of this heinous 
charge, a mystery is made to me during the whole of the prepa- 
ratory process, that is, during fourteen long months, and now I 
am suddenly required to answer, in a public court, the vile 
calumniator.” 

The president interrupts the accused, and warns him not insult 
the witness, who is entitled to respect. 

Nisco rejoins. — “ This man is no witness, he is a denunziantt — 
a delator. If you will not allow me to call him a calumniator, I 
shall call him by his name, and that will be enough, nay, quite 
the same thing. I shall say he is an lervolino ; that name is the 
impersonation of all human wickedness. Well, this lervolino 
confesses himself a Sectarian, confesses having taken the oath to 
\ Sect, having, during ^he course of a whole year, received and 
executed commissions connected with that Sect. This man, then, 
is amenable to justice, and cannot be heard as a witness. Let 
lervolino come up and take his place on these benches, let him 
stake his own head, and then his wonderful revelations may be, 
I will not say credited, but listened to without offence to the 
law.” Here Nisco enters at length into details and statements 
in order to prove, that during Poerio’s administration, that is, 
from the 6th of March to the 3d of April, 1848, he, Nisco, was 
never in Naples, and, consequently, cannot, out of physicaJ 


Continuation. 


417 


toposbibility, have held any communication with lervolino, ae 
asserted by xhe latter, in a place where he, Nisco, was not. “ I 
know very well,” continued the accused, “that lervolino has 
retracted his former saying in one respect, and assumed just now 
that his solicitations to Poerio to be enrolled in a Sect were 
made at a later period, and when Poerio was no longer in office. 
But when did this informer change his tactics ? When the 
incredibility of his first affirmation stared him and every one else 
in the face. But lervolino’s new declaration surpasses in 
absurdity, if possible, the old one. His object, he declares, was 
to be recommended by Poerio to some ef the new ministers. 
To the ministers, forsooth, of the 16th May I — that same admin- 
istration to which Poero, as a deputy, never ceased to offer from 
the tribune a loyal, conscientious, but unflinching opposition.” 
Nisco concludes by demanding to prove, by unexceptionable wit- 
nesses, the exactness of his allegations as to his alili from Naples, 
at a time when lervolino alleges to have held personal intercourse 
with him in the capital. 

Settembrini, on being asked by the president, if he has any- 
thing to say, rises and answers, “After the questions put to the 
informer by my friend and co-accused Poerio, I have nothing to 
ask him with regard to myself. All I can say is, that I never 
knew lervolino before, and that I wish I had not known him 
now. That man is in the - pay of the police ; he receives twelve 
ducats per month, besides perquisites, depending on the services 
he renders. See how he has cleaned and furbished himself up ; 
he looks anything but poor now. He confided all this himself 
to Ms friends, Nicolo Kubinacci, Luigi Mazzola, Perdinando 
Lanzetta, and Giovanni Luigi Pellegrino ; these confidences he 
made on an occasion when Rubinacci, complaining to him of the 
hardneso of the times, lervolino exhorted him to do as he did, 
and hi. wonla soon be out of want. I demand that the persons 

have named may be heard as witnesses, and I hope the court 

18 * 


Doctor Antonio. 


il8 

will grant me at least this request. I take this opportunity at 
reminding the court that I stand here in a solitary and unprece- 
dented position, namely, that I am the only one in this cause 
whose grounds of defence have been all rejected in a lump. If 
the necessity of hearing some witness in my behalf does not 
arise from this man^s deposition, it will arise no more, for, with 
the exception of this single denunziante, there is no otner witncsi 
to the charge against me in the public debates.” 

The court prepares to withdraw. Poerio rises and requests to 
speak. Navarro looks much annoyed, and shows signs of impa- 
tience, but Poerio maintains his right, and claims from the well- 
known “justice of the president the full exercise of the hberty of 
defence.” After some hesitation, the president, who had already 
risen, sits down again, and the accused speaks as follows : — 

“ Gentlemen : — In the interest of my defence I feel called upon 
to submit to you a few demands, which naturally arise from the 
declaration of the delator. lervolino has acknowledged as his 
own the infamous document I presented to the court, but, unable 
to divest himself entirely of the sad habit of lying, has pretended 
to doubt whether the address was in his own handwriting. This 
doubt ought to be removed, and I therefore request the court to 
appoint some persons skilled in such matters, and to commit to 
them the care of legally ascertaining whether or not the hand- 
writing of that paper be the same with that of the address on 
the cover. lervolino denies that, towards the end of May, 
1849, — the time at which I learned that he was a paid spy and 
informer, — I ordered him out of my house ; he even asserts that 
he continued to frequent it at a posterior date. I affirm, on the 
contrary, that precisely at that same date, I read the nauseous 
paper I have exhibited here to two honorable friends of mine, 
and that in their presence I forbade him my house. It is the 
examination of these two witnesses I now demand, the necessity 
of their testimony having arisen from the public debates. I 


Continuation. 


419 


must also urge the admission of two other demands, of which j 
leave you in your wisdom to weigh the strict legality and high 
importance 

The president interrupts the accused, reminds him that lervo- 
hco^s deposition alone has already taken up six hours, and 
desires him to be short and leave out useless things. 

Poerio answers, — “ It certainly is no fault of mine if lervo- 
lino’s complicated falsehoods have lengthened this discussion. 
As to the method of my defence, and the choice of my argu- 
ments, I beg to be allowed to follow the dictates of my judg- 
ment, and nevertheless to anticipate that benevolent attention 
which your noble eagerness after truth, most honorable president, 
and never-failing respect for the liberty of defence (Navarro 
winces and fidgets on his seat), secure beforehand to a man in 
my situation. When the court rejected my grounds of defence, 
it left me the right of asking for the hearing of the witnesses 
prodimp.u in support of those same rejected grounds, whensoever 
the iuyessity or expediency of their being heard should arise in 
the public trial. Of that right allow me now to make use. 
When the court rejected my special demand for the reintegra- 
tion in the process of a document relating to a pretended letter 
of the Marquis Dragonetti, the court reserved to me the right of 
orally repeating the deductions contained in the unproduced 
document, Let me now benefit by that reservation, to show 
you the pertinency of a last request of mine.” 

Navarro observes to the accused, that these means have been 
ilready amply developed in his printed defence, and that their 
repetition will only cause a useless loss of time to the court. 

p^.erio. — “ The time you devote to the hearing of the defence, 

time put to its noblest purpose ; nor will you regret it, honocar 
ble president, if it serves to satisfy you of my innocence, and of 
the wicked animosity of my enemies. Gentlemen, in my grounds 
of defence, I have appealed to the testimony of eminent persons, 


420 


Doctor Antonio. 


cardinaiS, ambassadors, ministers, generals, etc. I have jailed 
on them to depose, both to my opinions and my acts as a public 
man. This lervolino, a man who has sold his soul to the faction 
bent on my destruction, — this type of all vice dares, with the 
most insensate and vilest calumnies, to sully five-and-forty years 
of a modest but fearless and virtuous life. Can you, after listen- 
ing to him, deny me the means of justification ? If the list of 
witnesses I have produced be too long, curtail it in your wisdom, 
but do not reject them all on the plea of their being many. Do 
not thus deprive me of the means of vindicating that which is 
most vital to me — I mean my honor. 

“ And now I am come to my last request. On the 24th of 
July, 1849, six days after my arrest, I was summoned, for the 
first time, to the presence of the commissary inquisitor, and 
desired to open a sealed letter forwarded through the post to my 
address, and which was attributed to the Marquis Dragonetti 
No sooner had I cast my eyes on it than I perceived at once the 
vile imitation of DragonettPs handwriting. There were among 
my sequestrated papers some of DragonettPs genuine letters 
which I produced. The commissary inquisitor and his atten- 
dants compared them with the one they had just given me, and, 
even to their eyes, the forgery stood confessed. Nor did I rest 
content with this material proof of the calumny, but I went on 
to corroborate it by the demonstration of a moral impossibility. 
How could Dragonetti, one of the purest and most elegant 
writers in Italy, he whose letters were models of polished style — 
how could he have penned a paper so full of gross blunders, not 
only of grammar, but of spelling ? How could a man in Dra- 
gonettPs affluent circumstances, with a large circle of relations, 
friends, and acquaintances at his service, be supposed to have 
employed the post in so treasonable a matter, — he who had 
always forwarded his letters on the most indifferent subjects, by 
a private hand ? How could it be possible that a man of mature 


Continuation. 


421 


age, and brought up in the school of misfortune, should evei 
dream of writing openly in his own hand, without a shadow of 
disguise, a letter which must send him to the scaffold, anthem 
ticating it with his signature, and the title of Marquis tc 
boot ? 

“These, and such hke unanswerable arguments, as I imme 
diately set forth and indited, were entered on a minute which 
was di’awu up at the time ; but this minute does not figure 
among the documents of the present process, and has been kept 
back from malignant motives. The forged letter was to inform 
me that Mazzini, one of the triumvirs at Rome, gave me a ren- 
dezvous at Malta ; it spoke of a universal rising throughout Italy 
being at hand ; it alluded to a eorrespondence of Lord Palmers- 
ton, engaging the people of this country to proclaim a repubhc, 
and offering assistance of every kind ; (all eyes here turned 
towards the representative of Great Britain, Sir William Tem- 
ple, Lord Palmerston’s brother, who is present in the gallery 
with the Princess Colonna ;) finally, that stupid paper announced 
the imminent arrival of Garibaldi. I formally demand that the 
missing minute be reinstated among the documents of the cause ; 
ana I have no doubt but that you will comply with my demand, 
for the condemnation of the innocent is a public calamity, and to 
remove any such danger, you must concede to me the free use of 
all such means as tend to establish my being the victim of dark 
and calumnious machinations. And please to remark that the 
entry of Garibaldi is spoken of in lervolino’s denvmzia against me 
of the 20th May, 1849 ; that the entry of Garibaldi was men- 
tioned by the witnesses of Pomigliano examined in the prepara- 
tory process ; and that the entry of Garabaldi is touched upon 
by the author of the forged letter, attributed to Dragonetti. 
Here, then, you have the watchword of my persecutors — here, 
then, you have the thread to unravel the web woven for my 
destruction. Gentlemen of the court, I adjure you to let light 


Doctor Antonio. 


it22 

Bhiiie in upon you Surely you will not, by shutting your eyeSj 
willfully remain in darkness.” 

The Grand Criminal Court withdraws to deliberate ; and 
comes back two hours afterwards with a decision to the follow- 
ing effect : — Of the demands of the accused Nisco, the court 
admits, by a majority of six votes to two, the one relating to the 
proof of his sojourn at San Giorgio by means of witnesses — 
rejects the proof, through witnesses, of the precise epoch of his 
journey to and from Rome, reserving to the accused the- right of 
establishing the date by the exhibition of his passport. 

Settembrini's request to prove lervolino to be a paid agent of 
the police, by oral evidence, the court rejects — reserves the right 
uo the accused of proving his assertion by documents. 

All Poerio’s demands are rejected in a lump. 


This trial lasted eight months, from June, 1850, up to Janu 
ary (inclusive) of 1851. Procurator Angelillo’s speech in sup- 
port of the accusation took up three days. The advocates on 
the side of the defence fought like lions for their clients, but with 
little success. Out of forty-two accused, reduced to forty-one by 
the death of Leipnecher, eight were acquitted, thirty-three con- 
demned (we record only the severe sentences) ; three, among 
whom Settembrini, to death ; two to the galleys ; three to 
thirty-five years of irons ; one, Nisco, to thirty years of irons ; 
three, Poerio, Pironti, and Romeo, to four-and-twenty years of 
irons ; one to twenty years of irons ; eight to nineteen years of 
irons. 

As one of the names included in this last category fell from 
the lips of the clerk of the court, a shriek came from the reserved 
gallery-seats, and a great bustle ensued. At the same instant 
one of the prisoners, a tall, commanding figure, ghastly pale, 
rose and stretched both hands towards the gallecv It was whia- 


Continuation 


m 

pered among the crowd that a lady, the relied lady who had 
lot missed a single sitting of the court, some said the sister, 
some the wife of the prisoner who had stood up — some an 
English lady, whose life he had saved — had fainted, and bev 
''»^ned away by her friend 


^24 


Doctor Antonio. 


Chapter XXVII. 

Ischia. 

This last chapter finds all the prominent characters of ooi 
story (excepting Sir John, who is still confined by his gout at 
Davenne) in the Isle of Ischia. 

Doctor Antonio, in the dress of a common felon, drags his 
heavy chains in yonder frowning castle. 

Lady Cleverton, ever since last February, had been residing in 
one of the best situated and most beautiful villas of the island 
Owing to ill health, her habits are extremely seduced, and she 
generally leaves it to her cousin, the attache, and her companion, 
a lady of most agreeable manners, to do the honors of her splen- 
did mansion to the distinguished visitors who flock frcm Naples 
and the adjacent islands to admire Lady Clevertods beautiful 
yacht. Her ladyship’s physicians, it is said, have advised her to 
live as much as possible at sea, and, to enable her to conform to 
their advice, this paragon of yachts has been sent from England. 
The Perseverante — thus has Lady Cleverton christened her fairy 
vessel — is better known for twenty miles around than any of his 
Neapolitan majesty’s ships — goes in and out of the neighboring 
little bays at all hours of the day or night — is seen tacking and 
cruising along the coast, without ever disturbing the siesta of 
custom-house officer or coast-guard ; — ^the Perscroerante, in shcort^ 
b quite at home in these waters of the lovely gulf of Na|)lei. 


Ischia. 


425 


Speranza, it is scarcely necessary to say, is by the side of her 
dear mistress. 

Battista has given up his inn and his epaulettes to come aud 
settle as a fisherman at Ischia, where he lives in a poor quarter 
of the town close to the port. He brings, almost daily, to Lady 
Cleverton’s villa, large loads of fish, which are always received 
by Speranza. As nobody in the house understands Battista’s 
yatds but Speranza, it is she who makes the bargains ; but in all 
other respects she treats him like a perfect stranger, as indeed 
do Hutchins and the English man-servant, the only members of 
the household who have known him before. Battista’s custom 
in the town is not large. Save now and then some chance pur- 
chaser, it appears limited to a thin elderly man in a shabby suit 
of black, undoubtedly an inmate of the castle, as he is invariably 
seen to pass the bridge that joins the castle to the island, when 
he comes, which he regularly does every second day, to buy his 
provision of fish at Battista’s house. Battista shows great 
atteucion to his single customer, terms him “ his dear doctor,” — 
a diploma of Battista’s own conferring — has a glass of lachryma 
Christ! always ready for him — loads him with fish, and with mys- 
terious little bundles into the bargain, which last the visitor 
twists, with the utmost care, round his body under his clothes. 
These bundles are skeins of strong silk, carefully prepared by 
Lady Cleverton and Speranza. One hour would be sufficient to 
loop hundreds of these skeins into one another, and make them 
into a siffid rope or chain, by which a person might descend from 
any height. 

Weil, we are in the month of May— that fatal month of May I 
The night is as dark as lovers and smugglers could wish, and the 
black outlines of yonder towering castle are scarcely discernible 
on the gloomy background of an overcast sky. A boat, in which 
are tfie attache and Battista, advances cautiously with muffled 
oars to the foot of the huge pile, and takes up its station just 


Doctor Antonio. 


m 

where the rock plunges perpendicularly into the sea. A short 
mile off the little harbor of Ischia, the Fer sever ante. Ik-s at 
anchor. In a cabin on the deck are Lady Cleverton and k-pe- 
ranza, mute as shadows. Their anxiety is too great for utter 
ance. Speranza on her knees by the side of her beloved 
mistress, bathes her temples. Lucy^s life hangs on the Ljue 
of this hour. 

Every clock of the town strikes twelve — the two women in the 
yacht strain their eyes in the direction of the fortress — the two 
men in the boat strain their eyes upwards — not a stir — not a 
sound. Another hour — an age — is gone, and the same dead 
stillness prevails. What can this delay portend ? Midnight was 
the hour appointed ; the filing of the prisoner’s chains, and the 
iron bars of the window, through which he must make his escape, 
was only to occupy twenty minutes. Could it be that a discovery 
had taken place ? But if so, some alarm would have been gi?en, 
muskets fired, voices heard, — at least lights would have been 
seen — and everything remains as still and dark as death. Or 
could it be, that, at the decisive moment, face to face with the 
abyss below, the captive’s courage had failed him ? Three years 
of physical and mental torture, as practised in Neapofi tan jails, 
had been known to unman hearts as noble and fearless as 
Antonio’s. 

While on board the yacht, and in the boat, such conjectures 
were being discussed in thrilling whispers, the vast mass of the 
castle was becoming every moment more distinct againyt the 
gradually whitening horizon. Another ten minutes, and it would 
be too late for the boat to withdraw without arousing suspicion, 
so the attach^ and Battista took once more to their oars, and, 
cautiously leaving their perilous situation, made for the yacht ; 
and in a little more than an hour afterwards, a sedan-chair 
deposited Lady Cleverton in the hall of her villa. Battista by 
this time was pacing up and down his poor dwelling near the 


Ischia. 


427 


port, waiting, with the keenest impatience, for the hour that 
should bring his mysterious customer from the castle, and witk 
him the solution of last night^s riddle. 

He came at last, and with such intelligence as sent his eager 
listener reeling back like a drunken man. Battista flew to the 
villa, and was immediately ushered by the terrified Speranza into 
Lady Cleverton’s presence. Jle won’t come out 1” groaned the 
poor fellow, tearing his hair and biting his hands ; “ he won’t 
come out I” Such was the fact. Antonio had refused to escape, 
and last night’s failure was his own doing. 

“ This is downright madness 1” exclaimed the attache. The 
glance that passed at these words between Lucy and Speranza 
was full of a new terror. At this instant Battista handed to 
Lady Cleverton a dirty scrap of paper. Oh joy 1 it was from 
him, though it could scarcely be said to be in his handwriting. 
The letters were formed by little holes pierced in the paper. 
These few words, traced in complete darkness, had cost the 
writer a whole night’s labor. The contents were as follows : 

“ There are five here besides myself, all noble fellows, the least of them 
worth ten of me. I cannot desert them. You cannot save us all ; leave 
me to my fate. Providence has assigned me my place among the sufferers. 
Perhaps our trials will be reckoned to our country. Pray that it may be 
so. Pray for Italy. God bless you ! 

“Your own A ^ 

Lucy buried her face in her hands, and hot tears trickled 
through her fingers. The other three were scarcely less moved. 

“ We will save them all,” cried she suddenly, raising her head 
with the look of one inspired. 

“ We will, so help us God I” said the attach^ and Speranza. 
Battista said nothing, but lifted up his hand in solemn attes- 
tation. 

In the afternoon, Baron Mitraglia called on Lady Cleverton. 
She had met him at the court assemblies. Far too important a 


428 


Doctor Antonio. 


personage was this baron, general, chamberlain — “three great 
men rolled into one,” far too high in the king’s favor was this 
grand-cross of innumerable orders to be denied admittance. The 
eonversation could not be otherwise than desultory, the court, the 
weather, the fine prospect, Lady Cleverton’s beautiful yacht 
which the baron had admired at a distance. Would he like to 
go on board ? The baron regretted very much he could not avail 
himself at this moment of her ladyship’s kind invitation ; the fact 
was, he had come to Ischia on official business, and must return 
at once to Naples. He had not come, hopes Lady Cleverton, 
with a forced laugh, to put Ischia in a state of siege 1 The 
“ official business ” had rather startled her. 

“ I could almost wish I had,” retorted the baron, with a 
chuckle, “ were it only to make sure that you do not give us the 
slip one of these days.” There was a twinkle in his grey eye as 
he said this, quite inexplicable to the listener. “My present 
mission,” continued the baron gravely, — “ I may confide it to a 
lady of your discretion — relates to some political prisoners — 
daresay you had no idea of having such neighbors — who are 
detained in yonder castle and he pointed with his finger to the 
huge fortress, which was distinctly visible from the sofa on which 
he was sitting. 

“ Indeed I” was all Lady Cleverton could say, as a cloud passed 
before her eyes. 

“ Yes ; information reached his majesty’s government but a 
few days ago that underhand practices had been carrying on for 
some time in this island, — something like a plot for the escape of 
the prisoners I was speaking of. Do not look alarmed, my lady, 
there is no fear of such dangerous characters being again let 
loose on society. His Royal Highness Prince Luigi, who, as 
admiral of the kingdom, has charge of this island, sent me 
here to inquire into the matter. Nothing worth mentioning, 
after all ; mere child’s play. However, I thought it best, chiefly 


Ischia. 




in the interest of the prisoners themselves, to order their 
immediate removal.” 

Lady Cleverton had listened to this disclosure with the feelings 
of a criminal with his head on the block ; but she commanded 
sufficient external calmness to ask, in a careless way, and where 
are you going to send them ?” 

That is my secret, milady,” returned the baron, with a smfle' 
as sharp as the point of a dagger ; “ that is my secret,” and 
away he went. 

When Speranza, shortly after, came to her mistress, she found 
her in a swoon. This, unhappily, was no uncommon occurrence; 
foi many months past Lady Cleverton had been subject to faint- 
ing fits. “ It was that horrible man,” she whispered. “ I wih 
tell you by-and-by ; I cannot think just now, I feel so sleepy.” 
Speranza laid her down on the sofa to sleep. Lucy lay very 
quietly. Now and then some broken words, evidently connected 
with a dream, would pass her lips ; some one she had long 
expected was coming, and she must have her blue gown. Once 
she tried the first notes of an air, which Speranza took up, and 
hummed gently. It was the first Sicilian song Antonio had 
taught Lucy. The silence after this was unbroken for ho^s. 

The day was on the wane. Speranza, who had scarcely dared 
to breathe for fear of disturbing the sleeper, began to be scared, 
she knew not why, by the stillness around. Unable to stand 
it any longer, she went on tiptoe to her mistress, and leaned 
over her. There was a change in the fair face which struck 
Speranza. She called her by name — no answer ; she took one 
of Lucy’s hand* — it was cold. Lucy had ceased to suffer. 

She looked like a sleeping child. The angel of death had 
smoothed away the premature lines about her eyes and mouth 
Her lips were slightly parted with a smile. She lay with hei 
head turned towards the castle. Her last look had been fo! 
Antonio. 


Doctor AntoniCK 


m 


Sir John could not stand the shock of the fatal news ; he 111 
gered on for some months, then died. 

The young attache solicited and obtained a change of resi 
dence. Naples had become unbearable to him. 

Battista^s mysterious customer was never seen or heard of 
more. 

Battista and Speranza went back to their own country, and 
bought a fine country-house near Nice, where they live to this 
day in affluent circumstances ; Lady Cleverton, who must have 
had a presentiment of her approaching end, having bequeathed 
Speranza a large sum of money. But the loss of their benefac- 
tress, and the hopeless doom of Doctor Antonio, cast a gloom 
over their lives. Speranza’s looks are sadly altered ; her hair is 
all grey. 

Captain, now Sir Aubrey Davenne, made a rich marriage, and 
never went back to India. He has been for the last few years 
one of the most respected members of the House of Commons, 
where he seldom speaks but on what kas become his speciality — 
religious and philanthropic subjects. The Peace society counpf 
him as one of its most influential and zealous promoters. 

Doctor Antonio still suffers, prays, and hopes for his country 


' '' " ' — — I ■■■■II. ■■■II III — ^ 

ECCENTRICITIES OF GENIUS 

By Major J. B. Pond. 


RKAD WHATT IS SAID OK I'T. 


It is distinctly one of the most in- 
teresting books of the year from any 
point of view.” — Rochester Sunday 
Herald. 

“ It is many a day since I have read 
so fascinating a book of reminiscences. 
Many a day — or perhaps I should 
have said a ‘ night ’ — for this volume 
has given me delight during hours, 
when, according to the laws of nature, 
I should have been asleep.” — Newell 
Dwight Hillis. 

One of the most simple, naive and 
straightforward books ever written. 
It fairly reeks with personality. . . . 
No man living has had such interest- 
ing association with so many inter- 
esting people.” — Home Journal. 

“ Adorned by many pictures, never 
before published.” — Detroit Journal. 

“ Possesses unparalleled attrac- 
tions.” — Boston Journal. 

Major Pond goes deep into his 
subject, furnishing pen-portraits that 
are admirably clear and graphic.” — 

I The Mail and Express. 

The w’hole book, stuffed as it is 
with anecdotes and extracts from 
personal letters, is marvelously inter- 
esting,” — Boston Transcript. 


“All the world loves a teller of 
stories, and readers will surciy take 
approvingly to the man who gives 
them so much of entertainiag reading 
as is found in Major Pond s 600 pages 
of bright personal description.”— 
N. Y. Times. 

“ Shining by reflected light, its pages 
literally teem with interesting anec- 
dotes of many sorts.” — Chicago Even* 
ing Post. , 

“ Originality stamps the volume, 
copiously illustrated with portraits.” 
— The Boston Globe. 

“ It has a thousand charms, and a 
thousand points of interest. It is full 
of striking gems of thought, rare de- 
scriptions of men and places; biogra- 
phical bits that delight one by thei» 
variety, and the distinction of those 
alluded to. From a literary view it is 
as interesting as Disraeli’s famous 
“ Curiosities of Literature.” — Pkilco* 
delphia Item. 

“If any more charming and inter- 
esting book has appeared this season, 
it has not come to our notice. The 
get-up is worthy of the matter of the 
book.” — Philadelphia Evening Tele-* 
graph. 


It is a handsome octavo volume, 5f x 8f inches, of 620 pages, with nearly 
100 half-tone portrait illustrations. Beautifully bound in English silk doth, 
with gold stamp on side, gilt top, At all Bookstores. ^3.50. 



THE VOYAGE OF ITHOBAL 

BY 

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 

Ithobal was the first African explorer we know 
about. He was a sea captain of Tyre, who rescued 
and married an African Princess, and then induced 
the King of Egypt to put him in charge of a voyage 
of exploration of the wonderful land of his wife’s 
birth. 

After a voyage of fifteen thousand miles around 
Africa, he returns after numerous and exciting ad- 
ventures, which bring out almost every feature of 
African life and scenery. Ithobal relates the story 
of his enterprise in a discourse of seven days before 
the throne of Pharaoh, who crowns him with honors. 

Sir Henry M. Stanley, in a letter to the author, 
says of it: — “You have added greatly to the 
happiness of many of your race by the production 
of so unique a poem, so rich in the beauties of the 
sweet English language.” 

Other able critics who have read the blind poet’s 
new epic poem unite in calling it even better than 
the old favorite, The Light of Asia.” 


t2mo. Cloth, Gilt Top, Illustrated from 36 draftings by 
Arthur Lumley, $1,50 



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JUN S5I904 


BRENTANO’S 
BookHellerH Sc StationerH, 
WaHhington, D. C. 





